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.