a broken wonder

It was the lights. The way the cheaply shone on the window panes and tried to spark joy in my hardened spirit. It was the price tags in bold red that screamed clearance and drew my heart away from its source. It was all the cars and all the people and all the noise that pummeled my heart like a wrestler in a boxing ring. I couldn't take one more round. I couldn't give anything more.

It wasn't like I didn't want it. Christmas is a time of joy and giving and peace and glad tidings, but I felt nothing of the sort. The places where there was supposed to be wonder and simplicity, I only felt annoyance and overwhelmed.

Because Christmas comes no matter what. Christmas comes and the sadness is still there. The battle from November turned into the battle of December. The struggle that was there before will be there still. Christmas comes even if it brings memories that hurt a heart far too much.  It comes even if there are spaces empty at the Christmas table. It comes even when there is anger and sadness and fear. It comes. December 25th every year shows up faithfully. For some, it means joy. For others, it means survival.

I've come a long way from those times as a child when I marveled at the Christmas story or when the presents under the tree seemed to be more than my little heart could have dreamed of. It's been a long time since I sat in wonder at the lights that we drove by or the joy that came with the hustle of the season. Now I was tired and the hustle irritated me. Now I am far from those bright lights of childhood.

My wonder is broken.
My wonder is lost.

But that's just it. I've lost the wonder of Christmas. I've entered this Christmas season mortally wounded from a battle I no longer want to fight. I've come to this Christmas season with a broken heart.

And Jesus still came.

Like Christmas, Jesus still comes no matter the circumstance, despite the pain. Jesus came, even though there was no place for him to stay. Even though Mary probably tried to stop those labor pains and keep that baby inside till she returned back home. Jesus came, even though the government didn't want him and threatened to kill him. Even when the world stopped looking for him. Even when God had been silent for nearly 400 years, Jesus came.

Jesus came, even though the world would hate him. Even though his people would reject him. Even those his followers were almost snuffed out. Jesus came, knowing about the sleepless nights and the people that would cling to him. Jesus came, knowing about the nails that would be driven through his wrists and feet. He came knowing his death would be that of a broken heart. He came, knowing the prophecies, knowing the suffering, knowing the struggle.

Jesus came.

And even now, when I cry out "where are you?", when I've lost the wonder of his birth. When I doubt his faithfulness. When I allow the earthquake to shake my heart. When I look at those I love and feel a helplessness I cannot shake because of a hurt I cannot remove. When I look at those I hold close and feel burdened because the prayers I've prayed for years have fallen on seemingly deaf ears. When I look at my own heart, a bloodied, battered mess, and cry out because it's been hurting for too long and I just want some peace. Even now, I see him.

Even now, I know him.

Immanuel, God with us, came down.

It was hidden, in a silent night. It was disguised, in a stable birth. It was wondrous because the Savior of the world came down.

And now, I am called to remember, to remember what he did, to remember his goodness, to recall the Hope he gave.

It is with a broken wonder I come. Before, I saw the simplicity of what Jesus had done when he came to earth as a baby. Now, I see the complexity. Because he didn't come to a world of small children, eagerly waiting to accept the gift he had to offer, instead he came to an earth that didn't want him, that would hurt him and reject him. He came for my messy heart, he came for the ones that would turn away from him and for the ones that couldn't hear him. He came for them because he loves them. he came for you and he came for me.

So with my broken heart, I wonder at my beautifully broken Savior. I marvel at the simplicity and complexity of what He has done. I praise him because He came. I celebrate Christmas, even if it comes in a whirlwind and I don't want it, I celebrate it because it is what I need: to be still before the greatest of gifts. To worship because he came to be Immanuel, God with us. It is what I need because even when I try to shut him out, he still comes. Even when I cannot see him, he is still there. Even when I turn my back, he is relentlessly pursuing me. Praise to Jesus who has come.

an ocean of sorrow

All Sons and Daughters have a song that begins like this:

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

I have never heard truer words. Wrapped underneath all interweavings of skin, trapped in the structure built by my bones and the pathways that are my veins is an ocean of sorrow. An entire ocean, filled with tidal waves and storms is flowing under my skin. It ebbs and it flows and I feel emotion I do not understand. I wonder if I have the capacity to hold these emotions that threaten to explode out of my skin. Just one touch seems as if it will break me open and I will bleed out, my life source gone. 

And as I sit in this cafe, I see oceans of joy, rivers of happiness, forests of melancholy living under the skin of these people. Behind their eyes, as they sit alone, working on things that have captured their attention, share their hearts with people who have stolen their attention, or dream about being in cafes far from here, in distant cities, looking out at streets that are not their own. 

These stories capture me. They invite me on a journey far outside of my own. Into lives that are apart of something bigger. Something far more extravagant than this life I am currently living. 

Because I have been in those distant cities. I have dreamed those far-off dreams. I've been there. The capacity of our human hearts is exponential. 

The core longing of our hearts is that things would make sense. That we would be able to look back at our lives and see a tapestry of beauty. To say that each thread was intentionally woven, each word articulated perfectly, each person a gift. 

But the truth is, words fail. Tears burst out at the wrong time, laughter fills us when we should mourn, people hurt us and break us and they don't say the words we need them to say. Our longings are not met and into our tapestry ends up ugly threads.

I'm only 22 though. I have seen the sun shine on the other side of the world. I have met people who have not been more than 10 miles from their home. I have met people who have experienced loss in the deepest places. I have met people who have encountered joy to the fullest. I have stared up at stars questioning the meaning of my life and wondering about the depths of my pain. I am here and it is hard. There is an ocean of sorrow under my skin. Everything is a disaster, most things are falling apart, none of my tapestries is weaved. Forgotten it has become tangled, a mess I wonder if it could ever be undone. 

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

The very next verse says this, 

but even the ocean eventually meets with the sand. 

Eventually, the sorrow will end, I will encounter joy. Eventually, my life that is undone, my sorrow that is volcanic, my anger that is steady will meet an avalanche of hope. I don't have it all together. The people in this coffee shop don't have it together. But the hope of this song is that Jesus has it all together.  He holds the world in his hands. I get it. I know.

But the ocean of sorrow is still under my skin.

How do I reconcile His goodness and His kindness with this ocean that is a hurricane? That threatens to tear through the very core of my being?
This good, good Father that I have come to know has touched my heart in deep and beautiful ways. I can feel His presence, here. I can see him moving and I fall in worship before Him.
But how does this chaos make sense next to His beauty?

surrender.

My fingers wrapped tightly around this place I've called home. I am clinging desperately to the ones I love, fashioning intricate plans of healing and redemption for their hurting souls. Only now am I coming to realize the fallacies in my words, the failure that has married my attempts at rescue.

Because I wanted to be Jesus.

Not God, not the name above every other name. But I wanted to do what He could do. I wanted to fix people. I wanted to bring healing. I wanted to orchestrate lives together. 

The hard part was this gift he has given me; the gift of feeling. I feel it all so deeply. I feel the pain of my friends, the struggle of my family, the heartache of those around me. 

With that gift, I wanted to bring change.

But I am not Jesus.

I remember the first time I realized I had this gift and I wanted to throw it away immediately. I was in Nicaragua. I had worn myself out in the day playing in a trash dump with children. We handed them food and there wasn't enough. They told us to be careful in the dump, but I got down in the trash with this sweet little girl and I held her. My Spanish was borderline nonexistent. I had nothing to offer her but a sandwich and the willingness to sit in the trash with her. I decided to make her smile. It was my goal. 

But that night, as we sang to Jesus, something in me broke. I cried and I cried because this little girl was never going to hear about Jesus from me. I was a temporary fix for a lifelong problem. She was sitting in that trash and I would leave to my safe bed. She was playing in that trash with dirt smeared on her face and I would shower. She was stuck there and I had freedom. 

Jesus, how is this fair? I cried for her because I felt her pain. I felt the pain that she would experience growing up in nothing. 

I wanted to be Jesus. 

Because my heart felt like He didn't do something. Was He going to do anything for this sweet girl who desperately needed love, who desperately needed to hear Jesus? And that was the first time I felt someone else's pain. And since then, I've entered this world where I feel so deeply and I am to give it to Jesus and pray for these people. But sometimes, I just don't want it. I don't want it because I don't pray. I don't want it because I try to be the doctor of these wounds, the author that writes happily ever afters into these stories. 

His voice is clear, he whispers surrender. Surrender. Jesus, really? You know it's easier to hold this. How do I surrender when these gifts I have I sometimes don't want? How do I surrender when these dreams I have were not what I first started dreaming of? He says to let go of the old me. But the old me was me. It was everything I knew. Everything that made sense. 

He's a God that doesn't make sense. And His plan is far more marvelous than mine could ever be.

I am not Jesus.

Jesus is asking for far more than I ever wanted to give. But he has given me everything, how can I not give him all of me? I was nothing, and now I am his. I have belonging. He has called me by name and written it on the palm of His hand. The gifts he has given me are good. The life he has given me is His. 

So I surrender. 

I surrender to this Jesus who has given me everything, who has wrapped me in his loving arms and held me close, who has promised good out of terrible things, who has turned sorrow into joy and tragedy into a garden. I am not Jesus and that is good. I don't want to be Jesus, I just want to take these gifts he has given me to learn to be like him. So that in my weakness, he can be known. In my chaos, calm will be seen. In my fears, peace will overflow. In my broken, testimony will be heard. 

So I release these fingers that are tightly wound around this life. The good, the bad, the gifts, the talents, the passions, the joys, the sorrows, the material things, my thoughts, and feelings. Everything. I release everything to Him because He is the Giver of every good and perfect gift and what He takes He can restore infinitely. I give it all to Him because He surrendered first, he laid down His life first. He gave Himself first. 

So I surrender, just like Jesus. 

Psalm 31:5, 19

Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you and worked for those who take refuge in you.  

art of trusting

The first trees that let go of their leaves are the most courageous.

How do they have no fear of the change or the unknown?

Don't they know it will be months until they bloom again?

Does that not shake them?

See, the trees have mastered the art of trusting. They feel the dry air, the shift in the stratosphere, the cooling temperature and they smile.

Now is the time for beauty.

The time for them to rest. The time for survival. 

The trees have been gifted a magical force that helps them survive the freezing temperatures of winter. They are willing to surrender their identity of evergreen beauty. They have lived enough winters to know this is merely temporary, that seasons come and seasons go. 

So the air shifts and so do the trees. The life pulsing through their veins moves slower. The soft leaves dehydrate and become crispy. Vivid colors overtake these trees of strength and onlookers marvel. Because when something or someone goes through a season of change it is absolutely stunning, despite the inner turmoil, as they surrender their wills to the one that is greater than them. 

It is the inside of the tree that does the most wonderful thing. The very nature of the cell changes to become more pliable, chemical reactions cause the starch to turn into sugar creating a natural antifreeze and lastly the liquid of a tree becomes like glass to remain a liquid and avoid freezing. 

It is this miracle that allows a tree to survive winter. 

It is the trust that awes me and leads me to believe that the trees that let go of their leaves first are the most courageous. And I realize I am called to be like the tree. The air is shifting and the temperature is cooling, instead of allowing my heart to panic at the season to come, it ought to smile.

Now is the time for rest. Because the work that God has done this summer to change the very core of my being and the work He will do in preparation for the hunkering down of winter will allow me to survive. 

For a moment, I thought I was the leaves. That the tree was letting go of me, that I would fall to the ground and be only a remnant of beauty, only something that thrived in the abundant months of summer. And there was despair. 

But then I realized, I am the tree. The leaves are the things I must let go of and surrender. They are the things that are not bad but not what the Lord is calling me to do. They are the things that hold me back from being all that God has called me to be. They are my fears - the ones that cause me to doubt the goodness of God. They are my insecurities - the ones that hold me back from being all that I need to be. They are the walls that I build - the ones I believe will keep me safe, but truly only suffocate me. 

And it is incredible that God built nature with a need for rest. I read a quote a few days ago that sticks with me, "Nothing in nature blooms all year long, so don't expect yourself to do so." The God who created beauty, created it for times of dormancy, for times of rest.  Just as He created me for times of rest. If the God of abundance created us to restore and refresh, then why do we feel condemned when we do not do all the things the world has given us to do?

And the thing is, you cannot stop the coming of winter. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do it is inevitable. So the trees teach us the art of beautiful surrender. They allow a glorious work to be done in them so that when Spring comes, they again can show us splendor. 

Despite what is happening in our lives, whether we have filled our time with too much, if God is prompting a season of rest and you are wearing thin, it is not a call to push yourself to the point of exhaustion, it is time to surrender to the will of the Giver of every good and perfect gift, and trust that He is calling you to a time of restoration, not of condemnation. 

As my leaves turn, I will trust that God is all good and that the impending winter is a call for rest for my soul. I can trust that He will take me in the shadow of his wing and hold me close in the terror of the winds and deadly pestilence that stalks the night. Because no, God doesn't end the winters, instead he shows up in the midst of the winter and blankets me with snows and clothes me in comfort. 

So, I lay me down. I surrender my knowing, I surrender all of me in exchange for all of Him. So that He can take this leaking soul and fill it with His greatness and glory. I let go of what I thought was my splendor in exchange for rest. Soon, he will fill me with more, so that these dry bones will live again and these heavy lungs will breathe in deep. I have prayed that He would take me where my trust is without borders, so here I am, borderless and afraid, falling wonderfully into His grace.

not enough

It was a Jenga of the heart, a balancing act. I kept removing pieces, praying it would be okay.
It very well would have been had those pieces not been placed on top. Each block pertinent to my soul, taken, leaving a gaping hole. New blocks, placed recklessly, unbalanced on top, threatening casualties.
My life quickly becoming a see-saw, each move initiating question of my mental health, balancing dangerously between okay and not.
Each move threatened to be a cherry on top of a very unsteady sand castle.
The magma of this volcano bubbled just beneath the surface,
an eruption is coming.

The first part was these self-inflicted expectations. These thoughts that said I had to be the perfect person, I had to be exactly what everyone needed me to be at every given moment of every day. My identity and central focus suddenly wrapped up in becoming this person I could not be. And when I was not enough, suddenly I was a failure. I couldn't do it. The person I was resembled my humanity, all too well.There was no forfeiting of this identity. I am human through and through. Therefore I cannot meet my expectations because the expectations I have put on myself are equivalent to God.

I cannot be God. Yet, I have fashioned myself into a mini-god. My heart's desire is to be enough for everyone. But what if I'm not enough? What if the truth of the matter is that I am not, nor will I ever be, enough?
I am not enough.
You are not enough.
You will never be enough.

I suppose that should be discouraging.
I suppose it should just crush my heart.

But it is the most freeing statement.
No, I am not enough.
No, you are not enough.
But Jesus Christ is enough.
He is all supreme.
"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him, all things hold together." (Colossians 1:15-17)

I'd like to say it is as easy as wrapping my mind around a verse, repenting of my self-sufficiency and asking Jesus to be my strength.

It is a process. It is a journey. Along the way, more pieces of my Jenga puzzle will come out and I'll trust that the pieces my Father places back on are good. The magma will continue to bubble and soon I may erupt.

But if Christ is enough, he will cover the eruption and the destruction.
If Christ is enough, the questions don't matter.
If Christ is enough, He is the answer.

Since Christ is enough, my heart is secure.
Since He is enough, there is safety.

I will not be Savior for those who need me. He has called me to be a friend, sister, daughter. Not healer, fixer or savior. He knows the amount of time in a day and how much time I need for Him, sleep and self-care. Everything else will flow straight from that.
We are not enough.
But he is MORE than enough.

So I let go of these far-fetched expectations of who I will never be
and I fall heavily into the freedom that Jesus' grace is sufficient for me.
What I do does not matter, it is not measured on a scale.
Who I am is not defined by what I do, it is defined by the mere fact that I am covered with His wings, I am resting in His love, I am breathing by His grace, I am loving by His redemption, I am held together by His sufficiency.
I am not enough.
But He IS enough.

What I Wish I Could Tell You

Four girls sat around me in a circle, my heart was anxious with anticipation for joy that these girls wanted to know Jesus.
The Pastor had made the call. He invited the counselors to stand. He said, "If you've never asked forgiveness for your sins and you want to ask Jesus to come into your life, come forward."
The Gospel had tugged on their heart, Jesus was knocking on their door and in their simple 11-year-old hearts they were answering.
How could I tell them? How could I explain the beauty of the Gospel?
How could I show them that the choice to follow Jesus is the most important choice they could ever make? How could I show them that it would alter their history? Change their heart? Dictate their future?
I sat there in awe because yes, indeed this Gospel is simple, but by no means is it easy.
How lovely that it is powerful enough to invite in a young child, encourage a staggering adult, heal a broken man, and change a dark soul.
I wanted to tell them so many things. I had so many words. But I had to choose what was important and that is the Gospel. The Gospel that would not change today or when they were 65 years old looking back to that moment when they chose to follow Jesus. But if I could choose, if I could decide what to tell these beautiful girls on the most important day of their lives: it would have been this.

I want you to know how grateful I am that you have entered the Kingdom. I want you to know that the simplicity of the Gospel will not change but the tests of time and faith will increase. I wish I could explain to you the first moment when the truth of what Jesus did for me sunk in, but I'm not sure it was a moment, rather a series of small moments which have weaved together to become a tapestry that is me. I remember being in your shoes. I remember being a small girl, asking Jesus into my heart for the first time, not entirely sure what that meant but convinced that it had just altered the path I would walk. I remember being a camper nearing the end of my elementary journey, whispering prayers because for the first time I was wrestling with sin. The kind that I was afraid of, the one that I was ashamed of, and I prayed that Jesus would wash me clean. The sinful thoughts did not fade right away, but Jesus was faithful as I learned to set my gaze on Him. I wish I could explain to you that it wasn't easy. I wish I could show you a mirror into my soul and you could see the turmoil of that memory but the peace that has replaced it. 

I want you to know that when hard things come it doesn't mean that Jesus has withdrawn his love. When the doctor's words break your heart, I want you to know that Jesus is there. That in his sovereignty, this trial will be used for good. Because, love, the day I found out my mom was dying, was the first of the hardest days of my life. I didn't know in that moment but my heart was launched into space, where it would float slowly through time and plummet quickly into a black hole that stole everything that held me secure. But the way my heart was encouraged that day was the Gospel. Jesus sent arms to wrap around me, people to hold me, words to encourage me, songs to fill my heart with truth. I want you to know that the gospel is there too. When we say goodbye to those we hold dear, the Gospel is the steadfast in the earthquake, the strong light from the Lighthouse in the hurricane. 

I want you to know that sometimes where He calls us makes little sense. How could it when he calls us from our home? When he calls you to a different state to heal your soul? Or when he calls you to another country, to people who don't speak your language? To share moments with people, to plant seeds, water gardens or harvest the ground? How can I explain how exponentially it fills your heart or how thoroughly it breaks it?

I wish I could I tell you about the time I said "Yes" to Jesus. It was the time I counted up the cost of following this man. A speaker told us that when we count the cost of following Jesus it will always lead to joy. If we have not found joy, we have added incorrectly. I went outside and I walked and I walked and I walked until I stumbled upon the joy of following Jesus. You see, it doesn't come from my circumstance, but it comes with the deep and beautiful and vast and wide joy of knowing Jesus Christ as my Lord. The joy did not come from following a list of rules about right and wrong, but it came from the assurance in my heart that God incarnate resided inside of me and I have the privilege of knowing him. 

Love, I want you to know this isn't easy. I want you to know that I have felt crippling pain, but I have met the great Healer. He doesn't always heal me the way I desire or hope, but he changes me. I want you to know how thrilling it is to follow him. Like this moment, when I get to share the central focus that has become my life. 

Because, my friend, the Gospel is so extravagant. More vast than the stars you gaze into at night and more lovely than the most delicate of flowers. 

And this is what I choose to share with you, on the most important day of your life:

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Creator of the Universe, the maker of Heaven and earth, the sustainer of this land, came to earth. He came and he walked a lonely earth. He came and He loved a broken people. He touched the untouchables, he loved the unloveable. He turned water into wine, He made the blind man see, He made the dead man walk.
Jesus Christ saw our broken state and left Paradise to come to us. When we could not come to Him, when we did not care, when we turned our back, He came. He came to be Immanuel, He came to be God with us. Not only did He come, but He called His followers to Himself. He called them to be different, to be Lights in the world that shine against the darkness.
He laid down his life for us. He saw our desperate state and sacrificed His perfection so we could enter the throne room of God.
Jesus Christ died a death He did not deserve for an underserved people. Three days later, He rose from the grave and conquered death.
HE IS the way the truth and the life. No one can come to the Father except through Him. The Gospel is revolutionary.
The Gospel is simply this: what we could not do, He did.
And He opens the invitation for those of us who want to enter.
"For if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead you will be saved." (Romans 10:9)


I want you to know that the Gospel is simple, it is not easy but it is worth every second.

I could not tell these girls this, but I could tell them the Gospel, and I pray with everything inside of me that it is enough to carry them through everything. I pray that they learn these lessons with time. I pray that they continue to say "Yes," to Jesus. I stand amazed because the power that is in this simplicity is overwhelming and it has overcome me. 

Grace Like An Ocean

What if it wasn’t enough? All the love that we bottled up and poured out on the ones we held most dear? We filled our leaking vessels with what we thought would fill the hearts that fester and bleed. We took our unsteady acts of kindness and fragile gifts of hope and offer them like a small child giving the gift of a dandelion to their mother. Deep inside, we know it’s not enough, but it stands firm on the foundation of love. The dandelion fades, the kindness is whisped away like a feather in the wind, but the steadfast gift of love remains.

But it is possible that it wasn’t enough. As age came and captured our bodies, the vessels of our hearts became heavier, like a roof that has endured enough storms, it caves. But we don’t take the time for restoration. And we fill, fill, fill, yet it is never enough. Because we leak, leak, leak.

Until there is nothing left to refill it with.

Until we are empty.

And dry.

And so exhausted.

Then comes the anger. Because we are empty and our love isn’t working. Our communication skills shattered on the ground. Angry with ourselves for trying and failing. And this is close to home.
Because what was the center of my world for so long I see has a failure.
What was the very reason for the breath in my lungs was meaningless.

A valiant effort, like a baby eagle, kicked out of the nest, stretched his tiny wings out, believing he could fly, but plummets to the ground.
It was not without rescue though, because the mother Eagle never lets her baby down. Just as the baby eagle thinks he will never soar above the trees again, she swoops into his helpless state and catches him and flies back to the nest, only for the process to begin again.

But I’m not a baby eagle. I’m a grown eagle, who is tired. I’m unable to save those who are falling. I won’t reach them in time. And even if I did, my strength is not able to save them, because they aren’t baby eagles either.

There are gifts for moments like this.

Restoration and grace have a way of offering the solace we need.

It begins with a picture of the ocean.

The ocean is relentless. Never once does the water fail to kiss the shore or the waves to crash on onto the sandy edge of the earth. It is faithful to the shore. Sometimes ravishing the coast after ferocious winds stir up its strength. Sometimes gently touching the shore, reminding us of his presence. What a picture of grace, I thought, as I stood with the water tickling my toes. The deeper I went, the more I felt washed clean by the dirty water. Jumping the waves, laying onto of their majesty, tossed by their power, suddenly a kid again. The worries, the fears, the tensions all fade away.

It’s like that with grace. I can run, fast and far, away from grace. But without it, there is no restoration, there is no hope.

Sometimes we run from it for valid reasons. Memories roared in my head of when the waves were unkind to my body, when fear flooded my heart and the water terrorized me. Before I had learned the art of the ocean, before I had embraced the love of danger that comes with adventure, stories of me as a little girl being taken by the ocean, a memory I cannot shake here at the shore. But I refuse to let the fear stop me from returning to this powerful force that paints a portrait of grace.

I wonder though, why we always compare the attributes of God to dangerous things?
Grace like an ocean, love like a hurricane, an avalanche. Peace like a river.

Is it because He's dangerous? Is it because what He can do to me could wreck my soul? Maybe I need to drown in Him so He can teach me the value of each breath that I take. Maybe we need His grace to be an ocean because it is unexpected. It might not be what we wanted, what we dreamed about as a child and wished on the bright stars for. But it is far more extravagant, far more lovely than our dreams could ever be. Even the hurricanes and the tsunamis are for our good. It does not come without grief or pain. But the grief is there to soften us and the pain to build up others. Grace is dangerous, unexpectedly so. But grace is also gentle and kind because it is a gift that changes me in the most beautiful of ways. Grace is the ocean that ravages the shores of my life in a hurricane, it wrecks the things that I once thought lovely so that he can build me up into God’s workmanship, that resembles Him, that shines brightly so that they no longer see me, but they see Christ within me. Grace isn’t what I thought, but it is what I need. It is beyond all I hoped for. Grace unveils the truth that I am not enough but covers me so that I am. Grace unravels the truth that I am more flawed than I dare admit but weaves me back together into a testimony of mercy and love. Grace extends a bridge because my offering was not enough, but it lays the foundation of the offering that was. 

Thank you, Lord, for offering me Grace like an ocean, vast and deep and wide, when I deserved nothing of the kind.

“But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses. It is by grace you have been saved! And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages He might display the surpassing riches of His grace, demonstrated by His kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved through faith, and this not from yourselves; it is the gift of God, not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance as our way of life." Ephesians 2:4-10

rest for the weary

two years ago I made a promise,

I was waiting

          and waiting

                and waiting.

I gave the Lord my heart, fully and truly. 

The thirsty, shattered pieces,

and the dusty, forgotten rooms,

he had it all. 

but my heart was yearning,

thirsty,

desperate for more of him,

for him to show me the purpose for the pain,

meaning for the struggle. 

My heart's song was devotion and dedication,

no matter how unsteady my faltering feet. 

Terrified of my heart's capacity,

frightened of my distracted heart's wandering,

 I clung ever so tightly to Jesus.

The waiting did not last forever, 

he stayed true to his word.

but there were other prayers, 

bigger pleas,

more important matters,

I said, "Jesus, please."

but he did not come.

I begged, "Jesus, PLEASE."

but he stayed away. 

I cried, "Jesus I need you."

Why didn't he come?

Why hasn't he come?

There are seasons of desperation. When our faith is rooted in history, not sight. When our belief in our Savior is planted firmly in memory of what He has done before. In these exhausting seasons, our reservoirs of faith are often drawn upon.
Sometimes, the reservoirs become nearly dry. Like a trek up a mountain, our energy spent, every muscle in our body shaking, crying out for rest. Parched mouths search the sky for rain and scavenge the ground for streams.
Just as we are about to collapse, as our knees begin to buckle, the call is to lift up our eyes.
Because the spring of Living water is ahead, the reservoir filled with the supplies to rejuvenate our aching bones is just before us.

I haven't seen the reservoir yet. I am still trudging the mountain, knowing it's close, sure as the sun that it is not far off. But the strength I once had confidence in is fading. The energy I once thrived on is completely spent. My bones are crying out, they've been bruised from the fall. I am clumsier than I once was. My muscles scream, weaker than I had believed.

So what do we do when the reservoir is still a long way off? What do we do when our hearts are weary? Or when sleep is restless and we cannot find the energy we need to go on? What about when the thoughts swirl recklessly in our mind, uncaring of the destruction they cause, the anxiety they invite? Where is the peace like a river that passes all understanding?

I know I am not the only one to ask these questions. I know I am not the only one to wrestle and struggle with the God that I love.

His most beautiful answer is hidden away in Isaiah 40.

"Comfort," He begins. A passage of comfort for his hurting and weary nation, for his people who feel they cannot lift their heads. He comforts them with himself. The following verses are questions to remind them of himself. In verse 25 he goes on,

"To whom then will you compare me, that I should be like him? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power, not one is missing."

This God, this powerful, mighty strong God calls the stars by name and not one is out of his reach. He speaks lovely of the great mystery that covers our sleep at night and goes on to speak kindness to the greatest of his creation, humanity.

"Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak O Israel, 'my way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God?'"

These words may not have drifted carelessly from my mouth but my mind has wrestled them. The painful circumstances before me, my eyes focused only on them, and my heart is sure, the Lord does not care, he cannot see, this does not matter.

But these words of hope are not filled with accusation.

"Have you not known? Have you not heard?" He gently calls his people to reflection.

Of course, they had known! These were the Israelites! They knew their God. He had led them through the seas, out of slavery and into victory. They had known, the stories had been passed down from generation to generation. There was not a doubt that he had been faithful before. But would he be faithful again?

"The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

This is a gospel message to us. It is for us who have fainted and grown weary with the demands of life. For us who cannot understand the workings of this world. To us who are youths and yet feel we there is not an ounce of strength left in our bones. He promises to renew our strength, to be God to our brokenness. He is good, he is the creator of the ends of the earth. How could we doubt him?

But maybe you are like me. Maybe the promise of strength is great. But you aren't sure if you want to continue. You aren't sure if it is worth your time. You wonder that even if He does renew your strength, how much longer will this take? How much more must we wrestle with before our hearts are at ease, our bones can rest, our souls at peace?

The next promise is for us.

"Listen to me in silence," he says. (1) Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (9-10)... "I am the one who helps you, declares the Lord; your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel. (14)
'When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the Lord will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights and fountains in the midst of the valleys... (17)."

His promise is for us. Listen to him. Fear not, yes, it will be hard, but he will help us. He will answer us and not forsake us. He will do the miraculous because of his immense love for us.
In spite of the pain and the difficulty, he will provide for us.

I have to believe that the glory that is to be revealed with this story is far greater than the glory that was revealed in the last. 

I have to believe that Jesus will continue to be kind and gracious and good to my heart.

I have to believe in this hope that is invisible.

I cannot see it. I do not know how this will remain true, but I believe in my God. My hope is fully in Him. 

And I have faith. that this will come to pass because He is good.
I believe that He will renew my strength, he may not lessen my load, but he will strengthen my bones. He may not silence my tears, but will help me and be with me. He may not take this away, but he satisfy me in the desert places. 

the resurrection and the life

There is this story of Jesus I have fallen in love with. I've been reading it for weeks and I still come up speechless, in awe, flabbergasted by the absolute beauty of my Savior. Hidden in those last few weeks of Jesus' life is recorded a stunning story of selfless love in the face of rejection, deep grief evidenced by his devotion to those He loved and an incredible Light that shown in the darkest of places.

"Lord, if you had been here..."
The words fell from Martha's mouth like a burning coal.

They had sent for Jesus days before when it became evident that Lazarus was dying. They needed their Savior, they needed His healing power. They pleaded with him to come.

1 day went by.
2 days passed.

4 days Lazarus had been in the tomb.

4 days. Jesus had been a few miles from the house
and He did not come.

If it had been me, my thoughts would be chaos.
Jesus, why did you not come?
Jesus, where were you?
Jesus. . . why?

I've been there. You've been there. I see the struggle. There is tension all around of people trusting Jesus and yet wondering about his goodness through it all.
They did not doubt his power. They knew He was powerful. They knew He was a healer.

But He didn't come.

As soon as He arrived, Martha ran to him, "Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
But Martha, the one we condemn for working and not resting.
The one we do not want to be,
this sister trusted because she goes on,
"But even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you."

Trust saturated her words. The pain in her heart was unbearable, yet her belief in her Savior was undeniable.

Death's last word hung heavy in the sky and Jesus' words reverberated across her bleeding soul.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet he shall live. Do you believe?"

Without hesitation, her words came from the truth that she believed in her inmost being. "Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God who is coming into the world."

Mary waited at home. She was the one whose feelings got the best of her. Whose heart mourned in ways I only wish I could.
When Jesus came, she fell at His feet and said the same words that her sister said. Through her sobs, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

I am so much more like Mary in this story. I leave my accusation. I speak my thoughts.
If you had been here, my heart would not hurt so.
If you had been here, the grave would not be closed.

Jesus saw her tears. He saw the tomb, and he wept.
Onto the ground, he sank. Grief washed over him.
He knew that he would raise Lazarus, but his heart still shattered at the grief of those he loved and the pain within his heart.
He cried because he felt the pain of searing loss when death seems to be victorious.
He cried because of the pain that his friends had been subjected to, because of the doubt this situation had birthed in their hearts.
He wept because life was hard.

This story ends in hope. Jesus walks to the grave and demands the stone be moved.

He commands the dead man to come out of the tomb.
Lazarus, dead for four days, breathe again.
Lazarus, in a tomb for four days, rises.
Lazarus lives again.

But what about us? Sometimes we cry out. Tears pour into our pillowcases. Our hearts break because the healing has not happened yet. Our dead have not come back to us, nor will they this side of heaven. Our dreams sometimes feel unachievable and no one is standing for us and it crushes our Spirit. Diseases and disabilities cripple us. Life is hard.

How do we trust in Jesus' goodness if He says no to a miracle?
How do we lean into Him if He tells us to wait forever?
How do we believe that He is good when the pain is real?

A week after Lazarus' resurrection, Jesus found himself in a similar, painful place.
He was the night before His crucifixion and his Spirit was in agony. Luke 22:44 says, "And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground."
He prayed, "Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from Me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done."

How deep His pain.
His body reacting to the turmoil in his soul.
He heart torn between obedience to His Father and his flesh.
Jesus did not want to be subject to pain.
The Son of God felt a pain exponentially worse than I can even imagine.

What great love this is.

How could Jesus trust in the Father's goodness? Because He knew Him.
Jesus believed even in the pain that His Father was good.
Jesus trusted that even when the Father allowed the pain, He was absolutely trustworthy.

Jesus modeled trust. Even in his most painful moments.

So how do we trust Jesus' goodness when this side of Heaven is painfully real?
We model Jesus. We take our grief to the Father, in our agony we pray fervently, we pour our heart before Him like Mary, and we choose, in the midst of the pain, like Martha, to trust that He is good even when our circumstances are hopeless.

In this post, my heart is thinking about my friends whose baby is in the hospital. It's been many months and their journey is painful to follow as many prayers float to Heaven and the healing has not yet come. They like Martha, have trusted in His goodness in the depth of their pain.

We will continue to pray for healing, for this side of heaven to not hurt so, for the struggle to subside, for the tears to end.
But even if the answer does not come, even if the story remains the way we do not want.
We will trust that His answer is in Jesus. In the beautiful work that He did on the cross.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet he shall live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die."

*passages taken from John 11 and Luke 22

daffodils and weary hearts

Two years ago, I saw a daffodil thriving in the wild. A garden flower contrasted against the drab color of the dirt path. I wrote these words about her

 There she was, a simplistic beauty, misplaced. An attention drawn to herself, unintentionally,
because of who she was and how she thrived.
She was a garden flower blooming in the wilderness.

But wasn't it just beautiful?

The way she grew right where she had been planted? The way she allowed her roots to run deep, intertwining with those around her. Somehow stunning the way her vivid yellow contrasted with the drab colors of the dried, desert-like ground. Right next to the gentle brook, the daffodil's courage spoke to my heart.

I prayed this dangerous and painful prayer that God would take my roots deep, that He would ground me in His love, that He would bring me to a place where my roots would grow deep where He planted me. I prayed that He would be my perfect Gardner, gently uprooting me, planting me, cultivating me. I prayed that His kind hands that have moved mountains would teach me what it meant to grow here with my roots running deep and wide. 

I prayed,

he answered.

Two years later, I am deeply rooted. In this place that has been hard and painful. In this ground that has experienced long droughts and torrential rain. Under this sun that has scorched my skin and given me life. I am deeply rooted, fully alive. 

Today, I saw a daffodil. In the same wild I saw the other one. These daffodils had been trampled on. Right in the middle of a deer path was this daffodil plant. The daffodils were bent, their petals were dirty and broken. Their stems were drooping. My heart hurt for this daffodil. Maybe it was hurting for myself. Because just like I felt like that wild daffodil three years ago, I feel like this wilting daffodil now. 

"I am tired," I told Jesus. "So, so tired." 

I have nothing left to give. For the first time, I have worn myself to the point of exhaustion, to the point where I cannot stand and discouragement is bleeding through my heart. 

I've been waiting for the rest to return, the motivation to revive, my heart to leap, but it has not. 

Just like the broken daffodil, I wanted to be revived. 

Then I realized, maybe the Lord had been waiting for me to get to this place all along. Maybe, in my distress and my exhaustion, as I fall heavily in the arms of my Savior, he whispers, "finally." Maybe, He breathes a sigh of relief because I open my empty hands and He can fill me with his love, kindness, and rest. 

All my attempts at filling up this leaking vessel were meaningless. All these things that failed to fill me up: friends, school, activities, sleep, comfort, adventures. All of those things were temporary fixes to fill my leaking jar. 

And maybe, God's intent is to not fix the leaks but to overwhelm me with his love and presence that I overflow with Jesus and out of those wounded and broken places, He shines through and alleviates the aches in the pain.

I am the daffodil, strong and misplaced.

I am the daffodil, wilting but rooted.
I am in this place where I have been deeply rooted, but life has burdened me. But in this place, I have met my good and kind Father who is the giver of every good and perfect gift. His love is overflowing in this place because He is here. He may not take me back to the abundant and thriving place of the first daffodil and He may not revive these daffodils on the deer path to the way the others thrive. But within these circumstances, He is my good Father who faithfully caused my roots to run deep. And here in this dry and weary place, He is the One who provides rest for my restless soul, love for my broken places, and assurance to my doubting heart.

He is showing me that He is God.
And that is enough.

deliver us again

2 Corinthians 1:9-11

For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him, we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. You also must help us by prayer, so that many will give thanks on our behalf for the blessing granted us through the prayers of many.

Paul, what was your affliction? This affliction that has you so burdened beyond your strength that you despair of life itself? Can it really be so bad? Is this the type of affliction where when the bliss of sleep fades in the morning, the sunrise feels like an assault rather than a gift? Is this the affliction where anxiety catches your breath and holds it hostage there? Is this the affliction where loss tears hard through your life? When the ones you held most dear were taken away in thievery? What is this affliction that steals your joy and robs you of your peace? Tell me, Paul. 

Because this language is strong. These are not the words you see on a Sunday morning in fellowship with other believers. No, it cannot be something shallow, like the car won't start or the kids won't sleep. This is the pain where the storm won't end. This is a continual pain that has latched onto Paul and his companions. This is deep. Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death.

I wonder if he shares these words for those of us who feel this way too. For those of us who know our hearts are beating, but our lungs need to be reminded to breathe. For those of us who see the sun, but are blinded by the darkness. For those of us who are so utterly burdened beyond our strength. The ones who have been fighting for a glimmer of hope, but we've dropped our swords and we've been injured in the battle.

I think these three verses are for us. 

The broken.

The shattered.

The struggling.

The anxious.

The depressed.

This is for us. 

Verse 10 seems to be a reminder. He delivered us from such a deadly peril and he will deliver us. It doesn't say again. It says "and he will deliver us." It's like a reminder.

Soul, remember. 

 He delivered us before. 

He will deliver us. I promise He will deliver us. Does he say this to convince himself or does he believe that truly, God will deliver?

He delivered us before. We believe the stories. 

On him, he continues, we have set our hope that he will deliver us again.This is it. The assurance. He will deliver us again. It will happen. I am sure. I am convinced. I know. 

We just had this snowstorm. Next week is spring. It wasn't supposed to snow. We thought we were in the clear. We believed we had made it out of the winter. 

But it came, like nature always does in spite of our protests, without hesitation to our fears. And it dumped its beautiful white blanket on us. It feels as we shovel our cars and make paths for our feet to walk again that it will never melt. We are sure as we stand in the fields covered in white that the wind will never stop, the cold will never thaw, our pain will never ease. But I am sure, surer than the ground that I stand on, and the clouds that cover my sun, that there are flowers underneath those blankets. Those flowers cannot resist the coming Spring. The trees cannot help but allow blossoms to form on their leaves. 

Just as I am sure and confident that this snow will melt, that Spring will defy these winter months, I am sure that He will deliver us again. I am sure, that as he was faithful before, He will be faithful again. I've seen Him move mountains and I have no doubt that this one will likewise be thrown into the heart of the sea. I've seen Him walk on the water and I believe He can do it again. 

This water that is deep, He has parted, He has walked on, He has taught me to swim.
He will deliver us. I do not know how. But I know He will deliver us. 

This has happened to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. This has happened for a reason. There is a purpose for this storm, a meaning behind these tears. I reason for this struggle.
It is to make us rely on this good, kind, perfectly strong God who has raised the dead. Calmed the storm. Thawed the winter. It is to make us know our God who loves us, knows us and holds us. It is to make us rely on God who is strong rather than ourselves who are weak. This has happened for a reason. 

Verse 11 goes on

You must also help us by prayer. 

You must help us by prayer. Because this is impossible to believe. This is terrifying to wrestle with. You must help us by prayer because this journey was not made to be walked alone. Paul had companions, he had his tribe. He had the Corinthians whom he received much comfort from. And He had his prayer warriors, that even on the hardest of days, they would be beside him, reminding them that God will deliver us again.

So friend, on this hard day, when the storm has endured, the pain has been unrelenting, know that this has happened for a reason and we have a promise that God is entirely good and wonderfully kind. All his promises find their yes in Him. He will deliver us again.

handle with care

I don't know about you,
but I put up walls.
These high walls of self-protection and a stoic face that says "All is well," when the house is on fire.
There are these high strongholds around my heart that I believe will keep me safe. How is it that I believe that I will be safer in isolation rather than in the safe and loving arms of my Father?
But now the walls are gone.
Because I know vulnerability is the best medicine for this soul.
Only a box remains.
Because I know I must give myself to those around me, but there are still hesitations, so I've wrapped it tightly and I've labeled it 'handle with care.'
I thought the box was enough, but much to my horror, someone slit the seals and folded open the flaps.
 I did not stop them, although I could have.
I did not shout, although I wanted to.
The walls could have been pulled back up like a fortress on a hill, the drawbridge raised, entrance denied.
But I did not.
And they continued, these incredible people that had gained my trust, obtained access to my soul, looked inside and did not run. Instead, they reached inside and with care beyond what I even dreamed they handled my heart. When the wounds they touched were tender and tears sprang to my eyes they did not falter. And the truth they shared, the prayers they whispered over me were love and comfort to my weary heart. A balm to my dilapidated spirit.

This. This is what community is supposed to look like. This is what the most desperate parts of my soul were longing for. This is what I had been praying for. When I came home from YWAM 3 long years ago my prayers resembled that of a lonely heart. I yearned for the community I had built in Louisville. That similar place where we built one another up, prayed for each other, carried our burdens, and had friendships that were deeper than the ocean.
Suddenly, it seemed I had found it. Suddenly, I realized that we had pushed beyond the awkward introductions, we had put our eyes on each other and discovered meaningful friendships.

I went back to Kentucky for the weekend. To Louisville, to the people who made home a community. I have not been in a year and a half. Our reunions were stunning as we gathered for a good friend's wedding. When I returned this time, it was not sad, nor was it hard because for the first time my quiver was full. Coming home, I realized, I had found the community I searched so hard for.

What is community?
We are learning. Clumsily and passionately we are learning. It is the laughter that lightens our load, the listening in our brokenness, the praying that comes when we cannot bear one's burdens anymore, The joy that arises out of knowing you are part of a tribe, you are known, loved and not forgotten.
Community is an invitation that says, "We are here, we are a part of this journey, we will not walk this road alone." Community walks into the mire of the pit, community crawls in the valley of the shadow of death, community victoriously conquers mountains. Community rejoices, weeps, laughs and sings. Community is a group of people that are messy and beautiful, that push each other to the hope and life that is found in a relationship with Jesus Christ. This community is not perfect but is more than I'd ever dreamed of.

this my inheritance

she had $9,000 sitting on her wrist.
The look on her face told me she was terrified to even look at her wrist for fear of ruining the jewels found there.

Somehow, we had found our way into the most expensive of jewelry stores at the mall. And for some reason, the owner felt it necessary to have my friend be the model of his jewelry.
As we walked through the aisles of the mall, we became a bit more overwhelmed.
That store could feed a small country if every diamond and precious metal was sold.
Heck, we could feed the whole continent of Africa if every piece of merchandise and every beam supporting the place were auctioned off for its worth.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation to be revealed in the last time. 

This inheritance of mine is worth more than gold, diamonds, and silver.
I absolutely LOVE the joy of being invited into someone else's journey. This same friend, who had thousands of dollars on her wrist, has gone through a stunning transformation in the last few months. Part of which came into fruition during our trip to the expensive mall. Suddenly, the clothes, the jewelry, the money, it all seemed so meaningless. So temporary. It also didn't help that we had just spent a week at Missions conference.

Our eyes were not full of stars because of the priceless jewels and the shiny shoes, no we were encapsulated by our Savior. How temporary our breath suddenly felt. How meaningless this place felt. How desperate we were to share this inheritance we had found. Our inheritance was the most valuable thing we had, everything else was so unfocused because Jesus had our full attention, our unwavering eyes. This my inheritance, that there is a purpose for this momentary affliction. This my inheritance, that there is beauty beyond compare waiting for me in the presence of Jesus. This my inheritance, my forgiveness, my salvation, my acceptance, my sanctification, and the glory that awaits this weak heart. This is my inheritance. And it is this that none can take away. 

imperishable, undefiled and unfading:

Amiantus: a precious stone which cannot be blemished

Amarantus: a flower which keeps long, fresh and green. 

These are the words that Peter chose to define my inheritance. It is a stone whose ability to remain unblemished is steadfast. It is a flower that will never wilt, never be destroyed by the storm, never falter, never lose its luster or its flourishing qualities. 

It is in this that I rejoice. 

In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith- more precious than gold that perished though it is tested by fire- may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 

I rejoice that my inheritance is secure and it is worth more than the gold on my friend's wrist. It is worth more than the value of that store and it is worth more than all these things that are quickly growing strangely dim. I rejoice in spite of these trials that shake me to my core. I rejoice because the trials have only pointed me closer to Christ. I rejoice because in these trials, in this darkness, in this struggle I  glow because the Light inside of me cannot be hidden. 

Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls. 

I do not yet see him, but I know him. I believe in him and I am rejoicing with an inexpressible joy. Last week we had a speaker in Chapel whose voice shook when he shared stories of sharing the Gospel. I have never seen anyone more in love with sharing Jesus, more in love with knowing Jesus. It was as if his heart just could not bear the weight of glory and his soul was bursting with this inexpressible joy because Jesus was his and he was ready to share him with anyone he came into contact with. This man knew his inheritance. He was overcome by the weight of the good news. He was awed by the magnitude of this truth. He was a man walking so closely with the Holy Spirit. 

I want that kind of joy. When I do not see Jesus in my circumstance, I want to believe without doubt. Trust without fear. Rejoice without hesitancy. I want my joy to bubble over because of the abundance of the truth given to me. I want my soul to burst in response to the love I have received. 

O praise this Holy King who has made himself known to me. Praise this Gentle God who has come to us. Praise our Precious Savior who died for us. Praise upon praise to my Kind Father, my Sweet Jesus and the Ever-Guiding Holy Spirit. 

This my inheritance. 

the Answer

Our questions were a tornado. Swirling rapidly towards us.
The funnel was a foresight of the destruction that was to come.
 These homes in the path of the tornado were our faith.
The questions did not subdue in our prayers to silence them.
Instead, the wind and the world caused it to swell with momentum.
Terrified we stared it in the face. Knowing what could come.
Knowing the power and strength this tornado possessed.
 The wind was strong.
We did not know if we had been rooted enough where we had been planted.
Were our foundations strong enough?
 It was too late to run for the bunker.
 We had stood too long staring our questions in the face.
Too much time had been devoted to building these concerns.

You could hear the questions coming, screaming at us in the intense wind. "Is this the way its supposed to be? What if I can't fix everything? How can I watch the ones I love most struggle? What if they let go? What does that say about God? Is God near the brokenhearted when he seems far and distant? Where is God when it hurts? Where is He in the struggle? What if He stays silent?"

Then comes the eery silence of destruction after a storm.

Here we stand, surrounded by the ruins of our homes and lives. Obliterated by the tornado, we found the questions remain. The questions were not the tornado. The questions were instead the prophecy and the hindsight.
And now the questions lay in our ruins.
 Our faith was strong and is now crippled.
Our faith that defined us, we have now shed like skin.
Our faith that had become us was shifting.

Not because we had let go of our God. No, we were clinging to him more fully in this storm. But Sunday school did not equip us for these trials, Children's Church did not prepare us for these questions. And if it takes shedding our faith to know our God then we invite it courageously. Because we know Him. We have come to know him deeply and intimately. And for some reason, the truth they told us as children doesn't quite add up to truth. Here and now we are clumsily dancing with a perfect Dancer. Here as we dance, there is no room for doubt because our Savior is right in front of us. We can touch him, we feel him, we know him. But we had been taught all the wrong moves because our teacher was not our Savior and now that we were on the floor, it was different than what the textbooks had prepared us for. It was completely upside down. But this dance was more real and more lovely than anything I could have imagined.

So we stand. Our feet grounded. Everything we had been sure of, ashes. All that we had believed in, a mess.
And yet, our constant remained. He stood, held out his hand and invited us to a dance of wrestling.
A dance of struggle. It was not always graceful. There is stumbling, there is a stepping on toes. But there is humility and love. There are both hope and grace. Because the one who leads my dance is the one who makes beautiful things out of towns that have become destruction grounds for lives. The one who leads me is the one who creates kindness out of tragedy, life out of death, peace out of storms. Futures with loved ones may have been obliterated, our healthy bodies wasting away, our hearts shattered, bound, broken. But these things are just a shadow. We have been called to walk in the valley of the shadow of death. But it is just a valley, it is only a shadow. There is a full sun which points us to the Son. There is a mountain that must be climbed that takes us out of the valley. There is hope beyond comparison.


A wise and gentle teacher once walked me through this. I've been here before. He told us about the shelf that was in all of our hearts. The questions we fashion often become so overwhelming. Quickly, we are weighed down by the weight of these confusing words and fears. We are brought to our knees and nearly blinded carrying these questions. He told us then, that these questions, these conflicts we have with the God above are small and lifeless when we look into the eyes of our Savior. He is good. He allows us to wrestle with him with our questions in between. Ultimately, though, our questions belong on the shelf. I stood in my most broken place, sobbing because these questions were real. Where had God been when the hurricane wrecked my world? My life obliterated? Where had he been when my life burned to the ground with not a remnant of the past? My heart, dust. My soul, ashes. Where had he been when He took my best friend away? I stood there, and this kind and gentle teacher guided me to my Savior. He slowly spoke of God's truth, and how his characteristics are good and how He is kind. My questions grew dim. What I had been gripping for years, I released. I walked to the shelf and placed them there. It's been 3 years and they haven't stayed. Often I have removed them. But some have grown dusty. The oldest question there hasn't been taken in years. The one where as a small child we pestered our pastor with questions about the Trinity. Questions that could not be answered for our small hearts to grasp. But we accepted that God was good. There are the questions when I tried to grapple with why the sky was blue and the grass was green and everything was just so lovely. There are the questions when I shared the Gospel so clearly with my Jewish friend but she didn't respond and I couldn't understand why. There are the bigger questions of why God allows hurt, and why he healed my friend but didn't heal my mom. Why in 8th grade our friend ended his life? Why my classmate had a car wreck and floated away to you? There are questions that are too big, too hard. But they aren't too much of God. He can take the questions, and my hope is that one day, the bringing of my questions to God, He will destroy my shelf. Because in that moment, the questions will not matter because my faith that God was good was enough, and when I see him in Paradise, that will be true. He will be good and nothing else will matter because all my questions have been met with the Answer, Jesus himself.

Right now, I'm holding a few questions close-fisted. Soon, I will make my way to the shelf. Right now, I'm grappling with a few hard questions. Not as hard as they once were. Not as weighty as the ones that smacked me unexpected in my adolescence. But still, they are difficult. I feel my grip releasing because my eyes have drifted away. Slowly, everything is growing dim, all my fears are shrinking, all my pain, lessening. Because Jesus is so marvelous. He is the answer. I ask, he responds with a gentle love, "My steadfast love endures forever." I lament, "Why?" He does not tell me He is good, He shows me He is good. I long, he reminds me of Home. When I feel displaced, unloved and rejected, He says, "This is not your home, my love."

And so, the ashes, I invited him to rebuild.
My demolished heart, I invite him to start anew.

Dear heart, I know the questions you grapple with have pushed you under a heavy weight. I know these questions seem infused with your heart. Wrestle not the questions, wrestle your Savior. In all your pain, look instead to the One who has the Answers. In this trial of faith, peel your eyes off this broken world. Set your gaze ever on the goodness of our perfect God. I cannot promise there will be answers. I cannot promise that life with somehow become safe and happy. I offer the promise that has carried me through some of my hardest days and will continue to carry me for the rest of my life until I look face-to-face with Jesus and he brushes off the ache of this world and makes me brand new.

"When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you.

When you pass through the rivers, 

they will not overwhelm you.

When you pass through the fire,

you will not be burned.

The flames will not set you ablaze."

Isaiah 43:2

"I believe in the sun, even when I can't see it.
I believe in love, even when I can't feel it.

I believe in God, even when He is silent."

~ etched onto a wall in a concentration camp during WWII

Undone.

This is it.
To stand in the midst of your life and be unraveled by the beauty of grace contrasted with the ruins of despair.
To fall on your knees because you are totally undone by the truth of the Gospel that the Lord so graciously fills life with.
To see how in the midst of so much hopelessness and despair, the truth remained unwavering and the love stood fast.

I am undone.

2016 taught me something. The year began with all my plans chalked up to perfection, knit so tightly, just like when we were kids and my sister was learning to knit and she knit her yarn so tightly it became impossible to work with.
I had plans, they were shiny and new. But just like old cars, they began to rust and they began to break down.
The weavings of my tapestry began to fray. The binding of my book desperately needed rebound. It was a year that taught me that no matter how well you bind your life together, we were not made for that. We were not made for self-imposed binding and self-wound bandages.

It's a cycle. A cycle of falling apart and quickly trying to piece myself back together. Because maybe, if I am whole despite this broken world, things will be okay. Maybe if I am whole, the presentation of myself will be stellar. How painfully circular this pattern where I break and I bleed and sew up the seams for the tears so no one can see the hurt. Where has that gotten me?

2016 was a lesson in vulnerability. There was this gracious invitation at the beginning of the year. An invitation to be with someone else when they fell apart. And for the first time I threw my Christian bandaids in the trash and saw the beauty that comes in broken vulnerability and I observed as Christ did his work in messy hearts. Watching my friend fall apart shook me to my core. But as she invited me into that journey it was rewarding.

It was a year of learning in the stumbling. Because my heart hurt as I watched others hurt. My heart ached as I listened to the command to just be rather than clumsily try to mend a broken heart.
And in the process, I learned what it means to allow my heart to be broken and messy. I experienced the healing ointment of friendship and the cooling balm of Christ in me.

2016 undid me. Maybe it was a continual process of what God had already begun in me and continues to do in me. But if one year, through brokenness and hurt and messiness I can be one step closer to knowing my God-

Then God? I want to continue to be undone, because as long as You undo me, I can stand in awe. Being undone is evidence of what You have done in my life. Evidence of the truth that saturates every pore of my being and the hope, that when let in, will overcome my hurt.

This might be what it looks like to come undone.

The other day I stood in the Christian bookstore surrounded by a sea of self-help books with a Christian mask. They had cheesy titles like "Wild and Free," "It's going to be Okay," and "Too Blessed to Be Stressed." It was then when it hit me. These authors, though meaning well, were trying to take away the pain rather than see the beauty within the pain. Because I am wild, but I am not always free. I am blessed but surely, I am stressed. And maybe, just maybe it won't be okay. And maybe that is the perfect place to be.
And as I left the store, processing my life and all that plans I thought I had in order and the hurts. And as I sit with my friends on a couch and we express our helplessness and for the first time, we let it be. I wonder how much more beautiful it will be if I continue on this journey.

Because I am messy. I am broken. And I am undone.

In the midst of this messy, broken, unexpected year. I have come undone.

My prayer for 2017 is that God would continue to undo me because I want to be known by him in all my messy, broken pieces. I want deep, intimate and real relationships.
Lord, here is my dangerous prayer.

Undo me, Lord. Show me beauty in the unmaking. Teach me how to love in the broken. Let me see fraying hearts and unbound seams. Guide me to step behind those masks. And in that place, undo me.