to the church that raised me: body

to the church that raised me,

The sermons always started out like this: "Do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God." (1 Corinthians 6:19)
The trajectory of the story began like this: you are valuable, you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

The points of the sermon were as following:

1. Dress modestly. (you don't want to cause your brother in Christ to stumble). Your shorts must be approximately mid-thigh, straps three fingers, no bra straps out (because men 'complete the picture'), no cleavage, make sure it's not too tight, find a swim suit that covers everything, no bikinis, swim skirts are better, cover your belly, there are exceptions for prom/formal wear, but make sure it isn't too revealing - but you should probably go to a prom alternative instead.

2. Be pure. No sex before marriage, no kissing, no dating, don't talk to boys, don't look at porn, don't touch your body. (the above things are sin which must be repented from)

3. The body is the flesh- therefore it is deceitful and sinful. Your body will long for things that are unattainable, just say no.

The conclusion of the sermon was this: Your body is a temple of the holy spirit.

I embraced this message wholeheartedly. I followed the modesty rules to a tee. I didn't even talk to boys in high school because I was afraid to sin. I never listened to my body.

These messages have planted shame with deep roots into my mind. It took me years to hear my body, to listen to her voice as she tried to speak lovingly to me. She spoke a lot of messages about what kept me comfortable, when I was hungry, when I was stressed, when I was angry. I suppressed her for so long that I am still learning to hear her and listen kindly.

It is taken me a while to articulate why the messages above were so harmful, as I want to teach my future children to value their bodies. It bothered me because we shamed the girls who wore yoga pants to Church, the ones that had boyfriends and couldn't find a more modest bathing suit. There were so many expectations on women and how they should dress and present themselves. This message that sent the girls if anything were to happen to them, it was their body that was giving consent, not their voice. Rather than teaching our girls about their body, sexual development, how to love themselves and consent, we taught them to never put themselves in any of these positions.


I remember a metaphor that was used to describe what it meant when you had sex before marriage, comparing someone to velcro that loses it's stick. But there would be forgiveness and God would clean your spirit if you repented.

I remember the pastor telling the wives that they should wear makeup to please their husbands.

I remember my youth leader tucking in my bra strap.

I remember the adults asking "what was she wearing?"

I believe that our bodies are not deceitful. I believe that we must learn to listen to our bodies, to be kind to them. If we tell our girls that their body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, can we not learn to teach them as such? To love their bodies, to value them, to listen to them, that there is no part of them that is sin.

When she speaks to me by increasing my heart rate, I learn to listen and slow down.
When she tells me "you're tired," I stay on the couch for the night and I go to bed.
When she is feeling insecure, I pull out my yoga mat and remind her how strong she is.
When she is anxious and she tries to care for others to overcompensate, I ask her what is wrong.
When I wash my face, I try to be gentle, rather than scrubbing the pimples away.
When she feels a hatred for her figure, I look at her and call her beautiful.
When her thighs rub together, I look at my thigh tattoo and admire the canvas that holds my favorite piece of artwork.

Can we learn to love our bodies rather than hate them from the beginning?
In a culture that is filled with messages that we are not enough, can we make the Church a place that reminds us of our value rather than being another painful voice that we are not enough?
Church, we must not make timid women, we must create fierce warriors.

love, a woman with a body

to the church that raised me - on racism

To the Church that raised me,

Today, I joined a peaceful protest in my city. I know it was a small scale of what is happening in the large cities around America, but it was empowering. To see people support one another and stand by the pain of the Black community was beautiful.

My plea starts here. I wanted to hear your voices for the death of George Floyd, for Amaud Arbery, for Breonna Taylor, for the countless names that were silenced because of the color of their skin. I went to my social media, longing to see you share something, anything. But I only saw millennials who are sick and tired of this bullshit. So I sought your pages out. I thought maybe your content just wasn't popping up on my feed. Instead of outrage, I saw justification. I saw blame shifting - this can't be racism. I'm not racist, you said. My heart ached.

See, you raised me to love those around me. You taught me to listen closely to the voices of everyone. You said we are all equal, black, Asian, Native American, we shouldn't see color, we are all the same.  And yet, I looked back and realized there were few black people in our Church. I looked back and saw that we traveled to other places to commune with other cultures, but never did it happen within our walls. I realized your silence on this matter spoke louder than words.

I remember you taught us to respect the Native American tribe that we went to have missions trips -- but the goal was to share our beliefs, our worldview. I remember you boasted about the inner city kids you brought into the Church for AWANA programs. I didn't see the discrepancy with this at first. I didn't see the submerged privilege in these actions.

Recently, I have begun to do the work of identifying my white privilege, my submerged racist tendencies. I have learned that being non-racist isn't enough, we must be anti-racist (Angela Davis). I am nowhere near done and have so far to come being a young white American woman. I have begun to read resources that aren't by white people, but by those of color. I have started to ask questions of my friends of different races. This is only the beginning.

So today, I went to a Black Lives Matter protest for George Floyd. And it was there that I knew Jesus was. Somehow I think we lost him in the walls of our Churches that are built to keep people in and out. So, when you see my posts about going to this protest, I hope you don't look at me and think "she's gone off the deep end." I hope you take time to see how Jesus is here, in the protesting, in the riots, in the voices that shout black lives matter.

As a young Christian millennial, I implore you to do the work of undoing racism. I want to hear you admit to your white privilege, I want to know that you are working your hardest to undo racism in your own life. I want to know that you are actively fighting for our black brothers and sisters who have been oppressed for so long. Jesus is in the work of justice and mercy (Micah 6:8), let's find him here.

Yes, I am a millennial. Please don't write our voices off. The world is too loud and the evangelicals are even louder. This isn't just a phase. The millennials were teenagers once, but now we are adults, who have gone to college, seen a lot of things, learned a lot from people who were different than us. Our voices have meaning. Please hear us out.

From,

A millennial who is unlearning, seeking and finding and desperately wants justice.

learning

On my first cross-cultural trip as an adult that wasn't directly for the intention of missions, I learned a lot. I stepped foot in a Church that looked a whole lot like an American Church and I was angry. I met "short term missionaries" attempting to help long term missionaries. I watched them for the week, knowing that their savior mentality was something I had certainly fallen into before. One time, I was with my Romanian friend who I had been staying with. The white short term "missionary" was handing out Chapstick to the children of the village. My friend asked if she could have one as well. This white woman looked at my Romanian friend and had the audacity to 'teach' her how to put Chapstick on. My friend looked at me and rolled her eyes, nodded at the woman and took the Chapstick.

This story has stuck with me for the past several years. There was something that turned me off about this couple. However, instead of being angry, I asked a lot of questions to the Romanians there. I asked what it was like to have this couple come annually. Was it helpful? Or was is it a burden? I watched as my Romanian friends payed for meal after meal for this couple. I watched them complain about the living conditions (God forbid, they didn't have air conditioning in their room). They complained about the food made for them by the hands of the Romanians in kindness. I watched them talk about the Romanians as though they were less then. "These poor children," she would say, "they barely know English. They don't know what Chapstick is."

I was angry. And since that trip, I've been trying to figure out why I was so angry. What was it about this couple that was just so infuriating? I had done the very same thing in other countries, on other trips. I was ashamed to be attached to this mentality.

Recently, I've followed a lot of black activists on social media, I've been reading books by people of other cultures, I've been listening to things that aren't informed by a evangelical viewpoint. And my God, I have been learning so much.

I have immersed myself into a worldview that is different from my own. I am unlearning the harmful ideas that I grew up with. I am learning about the resiliency of people, the way people rise and survive. I am learning about privilege and the harm of the systems.

As I've been learning, I realized why this couple made me so angry. They came from an American Christian system that praises you for taking an annual pilgrimage to another country to serve. They came from a country that told them they are better because of the shade of their skin and the amount of money that they have.

I am less angry now and I am sad for them. There was so much they could have learned from the Romanians. They thought they were bringing Jesus, rather than seeing Jesus who is already there, in those people, in that culture. I met Jesus that week in a new way. I met him in the gentleness of the Romanian missionaries who took in the teenagers from the village and gave them a safe place to call home. I met him in the girl who didn't like me because she was wary of these Christian missionaries who came and took, rather than learn. The way she cared for the children was gentle and relentless. I met Jesus in the elderly couple who owned the Church down the street and sat and watched as the children played in their yard.

One day I hope to return to these countries where I tried to teach rather than to learn. I hope to return to India and ask more questions rather than share my own story so many times. I hope to go back to Nicaragua and see the beauty of children being raised by a village rather than think they would be better off with me in America. I hope to go back to Romania and ask a lot of questions, not just about missionaries, but about their culture.

Let us be gentle in learning before we try to Americanize a culture for the sake of the Gospel. Rather than pushing our culture on theirs, let us slow down enough to see how Jesus is already there, in these beautiful cultures and beautiful people.

Easter for the doubter

we met at the well

i go there everyday at noon when all of the women are in their homes
if i could be invisible, I would.
you were standing there at the well
it was strange because it was midday
and the men don't congregate there, its a woman's place.
i tucked my head down low and a walked forward
i didn't expect to hear you say
Give me a drink

and here you are,
the man who changed my life.
The only person who looked past my lies and my shame
and called me by my name.
There was no judgement,

there was no shame.

Yet here you are, hanging on the tree.
As tears stream down my face, I wonder if this was a lie.
My life has changed, I gave up everything and to follow you.
Was it too good to be true?

You are the Christ,
at least that is what You told me at the well.
You are the living water,
I have not been thirsty since I met You.
And now, I am quenched.
Thirsty for the truth,
doubts swirling like a hurricane
Pain wrecking my heart
I cannot breathe,
someone please give me a drink.

I've heard the story of Peter walking on water.
Faith bubbled in my heart as Peter shared that story,
his heart alive like mine was the day You said my name.
But now, just like Peter, I'm drowning
but I'm looking right at You.

Every promise you made,
I hung on every word.
Every word you said,
I buried deep within my heart. 

The women are here,
I'm at the foot of Golgotha.
We stand and weep
We know not what to think
We know not what to believe

As the sky breaks open,
I didn't expect you to breathe the words
Give me a drink
Sorrow rages within me
these are the first words you said to me,
what I would give to be at that well again with You.

I have never heard such deafening silence
as the crowd of people stood unmoving
unbelieving that the Son of God has breathed his last
This man, who claimed to be my Savior, has died.
Where do I go from here?

One of the most powerful things about the cross is the silence that comes between Friday and Sunday. Between those days, Jesus' most devoted followers were wrecked with doubt, fear and pain. Everything they believed to be truth was turned upside down, killed and buried with Jesus. What did they do for those three days? What did they talk about? Were they ashamed? Were they angry? As Christians, I don't think we spend enough time between Friday and Sunday. We mourn the loss of Jesus on Friday and on Sunday we are amazed and singing worship songs. But what about Saturday? What about those long, brutal days where Jesus' followers did not have a rock to stand on anymore? When they had no hope? When everything they believed to be truth had been obliterated?

There is a sacredness to Saturday we forget. A heaviness we ignore, we are terrified of. I believe that there are more people who are feeling the pain of Saturday on Sunday morning. Some people who cannot believe that the Ressurection takes away the pain that quickly. Mourning must happen. Jesus was not who they expected.

Friends, Saturday teaches us the importance of doubt. Of holding questions close. Jesus waited two whole days before he rose again because He is not afraid of questions. He is not afraid of doubt. He is not afraid to be the unexpected. If it's Sunday and you are still questioning, it is okay. If you cannot sing the worship songs because it just doesn't make sense to you, it is okay. If you are kinda glad they cancelled Easter because you aren't sure if you could enter the Church with all the happy people, it is okay. Jesus makes space for the doubters. 

There is space for us here.

finding healing within a plague

The world is loud right now.
There are so many messages,
so many rules,
Do this, they say.
Don't do that, they advise.

Amidst it all,
I've been drowning.
Going under
beneath the waves of heaviness,
of confusion,
of wanting to take it all away.

And the voices get even louder from the Church,
Come to our service online!
Don't stop meeting together!
People are throwing Bible verses around like candy
desperately trying to find an answer for this plague.

I think one thing we all have in common is this:
anxiety.
The plague finds us all back in our deepest trauma memories
and here we stand,
fighting the memories off,
fighting the fear off, trying to displace these feelings.
Running.

You and I,
we feel the same thing.
What if instead of sharing numbers and stats and hypothetical scenarios,
we shared our hearts with one another?
What if instead of judging those who went to the grocery store 7 times last week
or to buy plants for their garden
or to hike with a friend
we held one another up,
we praised them for keeping a schedule rather than staying in their bed,
we supported them for finding something new to love when the job they love has been taken away.

This plague will look different for everyone.
One of my friend lives in Bolivia and hasn't left her home in 3 weeks and is running out of food.
Another has built a garden and bakes bread every day.
Another signed up for a class and is fighting off the memories of depression.

The question I have been wrestling with for the past several weeks is this:
Can we sacrifice our physical health for our mental health?
Does one come before the other?
Or is it possible to find healing in even this?

the God you fell in love with is truly good

I was wide awake at 4:41 this morning. I begged my body to go back to sleep, but something was stirring. As I showered at got ready at 5:20, I realized how much I missed mornings. The quiet when the rest of the world is sleeping, the peace that comes when my heart is not yet throbbing with the heaviness of the day. When I began to ponder this peace and this strange stirring in my heart for the morning, I realized how much I miss Jesus too. I have been a whirlwind, a storm, and a hurricane. Glimpses of the sun have been rare, far and few between.

I have been trying to conquer the world, save the lives of everyone around me, deciphering the difference between boundaries and walls, navigating the anatomy of the human heart and just trying to make sense of the world. I don't know what it was supposed to be like, but I know it is not this.

The world has been so loud and His voice has been so quiet. My questions are bigger than ever before. Vulnerability has a way of cracking open anger and bitterness in a way I never thought possible. A tornado tangles my own memories with all the pain I have ever seen in the world. I have a hard time separating truth from lie. My questions have become demanding, rather than reflective. Why was my little friend in Nicaragua living in trash? Why did they tell me to not sit in the trash with her? Why did I come back to America after I gave my heart and soul to little children who didn't speak my language or know my Jesus again and again? Why did I feel the heart of God so fervently in India and I can no longer see him in my own country? Every damn time I pass a homeless person, I am infuriated at the system and how I play a part in it. Someone told me recently that the people I offer services to at my job steal money from my paycheck. How can their hearts be so cold to those who are less fortunate? How can God allow the oppression of suicidal spirits to plague our nation, let alone my close friends?

There was a time when I was okay with not having an answer for these questions. There was a time when a gentle man of God told me to set my questions on a shelf until Jesus himself came and tore down my shelf. But my shelf is full, my heart heavy from constantly carrying the questions. I know I join an army of Christians who carry these and can no longer accept the status quo. Church, what am I missing? This body I am a part of has been an organism, living and breathing for thousands of years, alive with the heart of God at its center since its beginning. I cannot turn my face because the evidence is so real. I cannot ignore the legacy of the Church, with all of its flaws and all of its beauty. But I do need to reconcile the way in which this Body has been a part of the pain of the world while still having Jesus at its center.

A friend encouraged me a few weeks ago and told me this: "Remember that the God you fell in love with is truly good, but is so different from what we've been taught. You'll realize this God we believe in cannot be contained that we have created for Him. It's so much more." I cling to this because I know that this Jesus that gave life to the dead, belonging to the forgotten, Family to the lonely, and changed my life from the inside out is still the same Jesus. Even though doubt pulses like blood through my veins, it is for those children who do not speak my language in other countries that keeps my faith alive. It is for all of these people that ignites my smoldering wick. It is how the heart of God still pulses through my veins just like the doubt. And this is what keeps me holding on.

unraveled

"When I know I've lost me,

will you come to find me?

Will you reintroduce me to your love?

Can you find all my pieces?

Can you put me back together?

They say you're the defender of my heart,

is it better this way?"

He hears my rewrite of the popular song. One I have sung over and over again, confidently. 

He hears my beating heart, throbbing with fear. If there is one thing I still know, it is this: 

He hears me, He knows me and He is still writing my story.

When I was little, my grandma always taught me not to pull on the loose strings of my clothes. I can hear her voice now, telling me how quickly it will unravel. She would remind me to be gentle with my tights as I pulled them onto my legs, "Careful, or they will tear." I always had tears in my leggings growing up, I was playful and reckless.

I didn't know the same would go for faith. 

As curious as I am, there was a loose string. I kept tugging at it, mesmerized at the way it all unraveled before me. Shocked at how quickly it came apart, wasn't it rooted on solid ground? And now, here I am, sitting on the floor, surrounded by the loose threads of my faith, wondering if beauty can be made from even this. Here I am, pleading with someone to answer: is this a good thing or not?

I told a friend about my unraveled tapestry.

She said, "Leah, if it helps - this makes sense. Mid-twenties, graduating college, trauma and a personality adamantly against ambiguity. It was bound to happen." 

This is one of the scariest places I have ever stood. It is also one of the most beautiful. It is a view from the mountain I have never seen before. I am grateful for the support I have found here. I am grateful for the stories I have heard here. It feels like a valley, but the view is wonderful. I am not afraid, because I know Jesus is here. Slowly, He is stripping away the parts of my theology that were far from him. 

I cannot be silent in this place.

It would be simply unfair of me to only post my revelations. 

I must invite you into my journey because I know I am not alone. 

I know that there are others who are deeper in this journey than me.

I have given Jesus my unraveled tapestry. I don't know how long it will take, but I hope the end result is more beautiful than I can imagine. I hope the same for you. 

"I like your Jesus, I don't like your Christians."

I remember when she said it. Sitting across from her at the lunch table in tenth grade, she was constantly challenging my faith as I believed I was witnessing to her.

"I like your Jesus, I don't like your Christians."

It didn't make sense to me. I knew there were some bad Christians out there, fakes I would call them. But for the majority, the people I knew loved Jesus and loved people. Her statement was far beyond my capacity to understand. And now, all these years later, I find myself uttering the same words. 

I heard those words again from another friend, years later. And I started to imagine what it would be like to take him to Church with me. My long-haired guy friend. I could see it. I would bring him into Church and someone who looks him up and down and walk right past him. I think this is when it began. I am grateful for him. He pointed out some blatant flaws that I had missed before. He made me realize that my answers for his questions were like a kid using Elmer's glue. The questions had grown, no longer little pieces of paper to glue together, but boulders, huge and menacing, that my Sunday school answers no longer measured up to. 

I started to say those words. I started saying them when I watched a Christian institution walk right over my friend who was suffering from a diagnosable mental health condition and ask her if she had sin in her life that was causing this. I started saying these words when I heard Christians talk about mental health as a faith issue, rather than a real medical concern. The doubt grew like cancer throughout my body and heart as the people who claimed to be Christ followers looked less and less like Christ and more and more like a country club. 

I haven't wanted to write this blog. I haven't wanted to admit to myself that I had questions. That my faith is on shaky ground. I haven't wanted to admit it to you, my readers. Because I know what some of you will think. I know some of you will be concerned, I know there will be talk. But I can no longer pretend that it all makes sense to me. I can no longer say that I know what is right and what is wrong. I can no longer say the Bible gives clear answers on homosexuality or the age of the earth or politics. I can no longer say I agree with the Church of my origin that women cannot be in ministry, that salvation is predetermined, that missions look a certain way, that we should send away the immigrants and build a wall, that speaking in tongues is dead and healing can no longer be miraculous and instantaneous. I can't live that way anymore. And please, if you have concerns, I beg of you to reach out to me. If you are concerned about me, I want you to tell me. I want to have these conversations with you, rather than feeling alone under the weight of these questions. If you have questions, tell them to me. I want to know that I am not the only one who feels the quakes of the earth and looks around to see if anyone else is feeling them too. 

This does not mean I am doubting Jesus. He is still my everything. I am doubting the institution that I know is the Church. I am doubting the rules and rituals we have created. I am doubting the 'safety' of American Christianity. 

Today in Church we sang "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom." 

He is here. I can still feel him. I can still cling tightly to the truth of his goodness, his resurrection power, his hope. I know he goes with me to this valley of questions. I have found freedom here, but I have also found fear. It is a fear of loneliness, a fear of being misunderstood. So if you're reading this, I want to hear your thoughts. I ask you to reach out to me and share your thoughts about this, whether positive or negative. Let us not be in the dark with these questions.

no condemnation

Eyes unwavering from the ground. She was in awe of the words he was carving into the dusty ground. And there was sudden peace, as her heart, fearful and raging, slowed to a normal pace. 

She watched what he wrote, used to those who drew lines, this man was writing words. He was different than the disappearing crowd before them. And then they were gone, the whispers were gone, the accusations were gone, finally.

As she lifts her eyes to this man,

there is something she has never seen before.

The embodiment of gentleness,

the kindness of love.

And for the first time in her life, there was no judgment in the eyes before her, there was no raging desire for the body she had to offer, there was no disgust at her lifestyle or condemnation for her actions.

There was only grace. 

And then he spoke, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

She looked around, lightness in her chest. "No one, Lord."

And Jesus said, "Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more."

This man who had every right to condemn her, every right to throw the first stone, every right to carve her sins in the ground and throw her into an eternity of condemnation, set her free and forgave her. He knew of her sins, the adultery, the lying, the deceiving. He knew. 

But when he looked in her eyes, he did not see her sin. He saw her heart. When she looked in his eyes, she did not see condemnation. She saw his heart, gentle, kind and loving.

How have we been like this woman, eyes frozen on the ground, afraid to lift our eyes to the Savior, terrified that in His eyes we will see a condemnation for all that we have done wrong?

How have we been like the Pharisees, first in line to throw our stones, angry and judgmental at lifestyles we do not understand, pain hidden by sin, demanding that Jesus give us permission to throw our stones?

Guilty of both, fearful of the stones and ready to throw them, I look into Jesus' eyes and only see gentleness. I hear his voice, as clearly as this woman did, and it is just as kind.  

In the past few years of my life, I have ventured on this journey of examining my stones, examining my own sin and dropping them. Jesus said, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her." This line has been so convicting. How can we throw our stones when we also have sinned?

When all of the judgment falls away, what is left is me and Jesus.  His gentleness and kindness is an invitation to be safe and to love well. Others actions do not matter as much to me as the call to love them, to be a safe space for them, to be an invitation to meet Jesus.

you are enough

Who was it that told you about this imaginary timeline?
Tell me who it was that told you that you missed it.
Was there a specific person or was it this cruel society that robbed you of your joy?

Let me explain. I see fire in your eyes.
A burning when you tell me of your passions.
How you want to bind the wounds of the hurting hearts,
How you want to share the truth with the broken,
you want to bring Jesus to the lost
you want to guide the lonely mothers,
you want to bring an end to depression and anxiety
you want to break stigmas
Your eyes light up when you talk about this,
your voice gets lighter
and your cares dissipate
I see what you were designed for.

I also see the glaze in your eyes when you look around and everyone seems to be arriving.
Oh, sweet friend, each journey is so different.
Can you not see that the one who has been pushing herself since she left her hometown is crumbling?
Can you not see that the one who is following her dream has lost her passion?
Can you not see that the one who has fallen in love has lost her calling?
There is no place to arrive, there is no one destination for all.

When did this disconnect happen?
The serpent crawled in on his belly
whispered lies about your worth
gave false definitions of happiness
stole the joy from the calling of the Lord

he stripped truths and twisted them around your neck into lies
this one you are dying under:
you are not enough

I feel the quickness of your hammering heartbeat as you lay your head on my chest
I can see the floodgates behind your eyes
pleading with me: is this really all there is?

But it didn't start here, did it?
It began when your childhood wasn't a childhood
and there was trauma
and abuse
and hard work

when the suffocation first began
don't dress that way
don't talk like that
smile, don't cry
be quiet, we're in church
They never gave you a chance to be who you were

When you grew, it was a choice
put on the corset
follow your dreams
but do it right
go to college
get married
have kids.

but that wasn't you.

I am so sorry they made you believe this.
I am so sorry they made you believe that being you was not enough.

I have to tell you. You are enough. Exactly as you are. Whether you finish the degree or not. If you take a break or not. When you quit your job. You are enough. You were created in the image of God and he made you enough, not for your salvation, but for you, for your passions, for your dreams. You are not too much. You are not too far gone. You are not too far off track. You are completely and wonderfully enough.

What I need you to know is this: it is okay to stop. It is okay to breathe. It is okay to slow down. There is no race. The only important thing is this: God. He has no timeline and he is gentle in his call. He asks us to take his yoke upon from him for his yoke is easy and light. Let us take a moment to know how kind he has been to our weary hearts. It is okay to slow down, my friends. Take time for you, take time to heal, take time to play. We serve a God who calls us to gentleness and patience, who calls us to different times and places. Please stop rushing, please stop racing.

this is for you

maybe New Year's was not a joyful celebration but a deep sigh of relief: you are still here. you are stronger than you thought.
maybe it was a small smile of hope because you knew that on your own you were not capable.
But those people, those stubborn, beautiful people you call your friends won't let go of you.
and maybe you went to sleep happy but you woke up and it was the same.

the same messy thoughts.
the same family.
the same hellish confusion.
the same school.
the same problems.
the same you.

maybe you're discouraged,
because maybe, like me, you battle lies that tell you that you barely moved forward.
that it was a waste of a year. that you didn't make an impact.

oh sweet friend, I know what it's like.
the lies get so loud sometimes, and it feels like you've fallen off the mountain that you have baby stepped your way up.
you spend all this time letting your heart be healed, but just when you think you are ready to expose your scar to the world, you realize, the skin wasn't yet strong enough and you are bleeding again and it hurts the same and you wonder if you will ever be whole again.

if I'm being honest it was a long year. it was a hard year. I spent a lot of nights breathing prayers into my pillowcase as my exhausted mind drifted into sleep. there was a lot of anxiety, pressing heavy into my heart, for silly little things, evidence of a much deeper pain. There was the constant voice of my therapist in my head: "Leah, lean into the anxiety, you are not in control." There was a release of shame that I even saw a therapist, to admit my need and put it before other things. and there was a whole lot of trust. an opening of my clenched fists, realizing nothing was there in the first place and a filling of hope. I convinced myself I was holding onto things only an omniscient God had the ability to hold together. I convinced myself that I was protecting everyone I loved by being everywhere all the time, constantly having my phone on, sacrificing my sleep, my time and myself.
this is not selflessness.
I learned that self-care is putting others first. I learned that it isn't always bubble baths, but its journaling my mess of thoughts, its stepping onto an airplane and walking straight into the unknown, its admitting that I'm broken too. And its a long long long walk, finally letting my thoughts slip into silence and my heart calm.

Let me tell you. I am in awe of you. The way you keep shining after the night you didn't think you would survive. The way you stand after the panic knocked the breath out of your lungs again. The way you love the broken with all your broken pieces. I am amazed by you. The way you pursue your degree. The way you stepped down from a promotion to take care of you. The way you donate to charities even though you barely made ends meet. The way you fall in love even when your heart has been broken. The way you courageously talk about the light, slicing your darkness to ruins. I am so proud of you. You feel like you haven't made any progress but look at the mountains you have conquered. Turn around and see their power and splendor. You didn't let them stop you. I am in awe of you. You have such a beautiful soul.
Please realize that so many people are in awe of you. Please know how lovely you are. Please don't let the world tell you any differently.

If the lies are winning, look up.

If the lies have your eyes tethered to the ground, reach out.

If the lies locked your hands in chains, cry out.

Because my love, the truth is for even you.

magic for majesty

We put the car in drive and found ourselves meandering through the streets, searching for the lights that used to enrapture us as kids. Pleading with the streets to open up to the bright lights. Was it the test of time and a lack of lights or had the magic dissipated with our age we wondered? The lights were less, our tree is leaning, decorations cost more than our paychecks and we wrapped our gifts in newspaper, why has our age robbed us of the magic of Christmas? 

Have our hearts grown too cynical? Have our weary souls closed eyes because we have seen too much? The broken pieces of this world seem so much louder, my heart requiring a gentleness I never needed before longs for the simplicity of my childhood, the joy I once encountered. 

In an attempt to bring back the joy, I bought Ann Voskamp's The Greatest Gift. An advent devotional like no other. She begins with Adam and Eve, taking us through the joy of the gift of life, to the heartbreak of the first sin, to the new start with Noah and the faith of Abraham and the brokenness through it all. 

I appreciate the book, because she is not demanding that I find the magic in Christmas, she gently uncovers my wounds and my hesitations and invites Jesus in. 

Ruth is one of the two women mentioned in the lineage of Jesus, both not of Hebrew descent. Rahab, a prostitute, put her faith in the God of the Hebrews. She did not know the rituals she needed to follow, she had not sacrificed a lamb for her sins and she did not know what it would take to follow the Lord, but she put her life on the line for the Hebrew spies and declared the truth she had seen and taken faith in and she asked them to save her life. This choice was not one of fear for her life, it was one in faith and fear for the powerful God that she longed to know. This was Boaz's mother. The one who would be the Kinsmen Redeemer of Ruth. 

Ruth married a Hebrew who had fled to her land because of famine. When her husband died, she was left with her mother in law. She told Naomi she would return with her. And she did. In faith, she like Abraham, walked away from her family to make Yahweh her God. And in her faith, married into the family line of Jesus.

"There are no brazen miracles to be seen in the entire book of Ruth. No angels appear stage left, no visions shatter the night, no heavenly hosts are overhead." - Ann Voskamp

But the storylines of these two women are miraculous because of their inexplicable faith. Faith in a miraculous God without seeing miracles. Faith in God without knowing or understanding all of the details. Faith in God without having a theology set. Faith in God with an abandon to their life and a desire to know him. Much can we learn from these women. 

They came to know God not because of their theology, or knowledge, or miracles and signs and wonders, they came to God out of pure faith. And God rewarded them for this, a reward they would never know this side of heaven. How marvelous. 

Christmas is an invitation, not to magic, but to majesty. I am learning the bright lights may not shine as brightly and the world will never feel as light. But when I turn my eyes away from temporary things and am filled in eternal, I will see the majesty. Christmas is an invitation to know Him. Not to better my theology of what it means for God to come to man, but to rest in the truth that God came to man and it was for the simple fact that his heart is for us.

Like Ruth and Rahab, I may not see the miracles in daily life.

But Oh Lord,

that I would have eyes to see your majesty. 

I'm not asking for the magic, I'm asking for your majesty.

I'm not asking for Christmas spirit, I'm asking for the gentle joy that sits in my heart during the darkest of days. 

I want You this Christmas, not the lights, or the gifts, I want You.

Come majestic Lord, come. 

and if not, He is still good.

 And if not, He is still good.



Six months ago, I made this my phone background. I wanted to believe this truth with all my heart. I was pleading with my heart to believe it, looking at my Savior and believing in his perfect goodness. But my eyes kept wavering, I couldn’t help but see the evidence and hear the screaming doubt from my mind.


So I made it my phone background. And every day I unlock my phone and I look at that blissful, peaceful, unrelenting truth and I preach to my heart that it is still true.

Because every day I kept waking up to this fiery furnace of reality and I looked at the flames and said: “My GOD will deliver me from these flames but if not He is still good.”
And the hope is not in the circumstance as those words slip like water over my heart, it is in this God I come to know even more as I put my trust in him.
Because each time I read those words fear loses his power. Each time I let them cycle on repeat around my heart, it becomes a pleading prayer.


I dwell on the “if not.” But God, what if you don’t? What if this fire gets bigger and the flames scorch my skin? What if these wounds that have not yet healed get burned again? What if it is not true? How will I know you are still good?



“He is still good.” What if He is still good? What if I look past the fear and the pain and I see Him. What if everything else fades away because His goodness washes over the bleeding places of me and He reminds me of His promises.



These two conflicting statements are daggers to my heart. One that evokes fear, one that preaches truth. Together, they bring peace. Because it does not matter what is taking place or who is on the line, the only peace is that He is still good. The only peace is that He gives value to those things and those places.



Oh for a heart like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego as they stared into the flames of a fiery furnace,

"King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty's hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."



They believed and knew that our God was able to deliver them from that place

“King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. 17 If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us[c] from Your Majesty’s hand. 18 But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”


They believed and knew that our God was able to deliver them from that place of pain and death. They had unconditional faith and belief that He would deliver them from the fire. But even if He didn't, they would not bow.

Even if He does not deliver me from this place, even if the flames continue, even if things do not make sense, I will choose to continue to praise Him. I will continue to look to my God, not turning to fear or other things because I believe in His steadfast, eternal goodness.

My God is able to deliver me from this, but if He chooses not to, He still has my surrender, He still has my heart. 

filled with hope

not only that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us

we rejoice in our sufferings.
I watched my world burn. I watch fire burn those I love. I have let control slip through my desperate fingers, surrendering to the suffering that ravages my soul. The fires started small and I did everything I could to extinguish them. But they kept getting bigger and pouring water on their source only seemed to cause them to grow bigger. Was I more wrecked by their power or my inability to stop it?
I see the ruins. Sometimes still smoking, sometimes still burning me when I touch them, hoping to find hope still intact. I see them and my heart sinks because the heaviness is unbearable. The brokenness of my soul barren, the holes in my heart visible.

in this we rejoice.

how contradictory to my nature. it is not "we ignore our sufferings and we rejoice." It is "we rejoice in our sufferings. In the rubble. In the pain. In the fire. We rejoice.

knowing that suffering produces endurance

this is not endurance in my ability to withstand the pain.
this is the creation of my very faith. this is the truth that surpasses my suffering.
this is the rest in who my God is.

we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God.

not only that,
we rejoice in our sufferings.

my suffering seems everpresent, all-encompassing, the center of the table.
my prayers revolve around suffering.
my life encircles around this thing I have deemed most important.

we rejoice because of who Christ is.
who am I? justified by faith, in peace with God, a rejoicer because I rest in grace
who is he? the justifier, the giver of grace and access, the glorious God who gave Jesus Christ

we rejoice in our sufferings
this rejoicing is not a smile plastered on my face declaring my happiness from the rooftops.
no, this joy is the deep peace in my heart that reminds me of who Christ is. this joy is because of the river of grace that keeps replenishing my burned and ruined soul. it is the rest in my soul, not the smile on my face.

suffering produces endurance
it reminds me who He is, a continual faith and trust that God is who He says He is.
the daily lifting of my head, the act of putting one foot in front of another, knowing it is Him I continue to live for.

endurance produces character
as I rest in this hope, in this truth, he creates me. I am the clay and he molds me into his own.

character produces hope

and hope does not put us to shame because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. 

I have hope because my sufferings are not everything. this is not the end. the endurance that seems to be the end of me, the tiredness in my feet that comes from moving forward, the heaviness of my heart opening myself up to hope. This hope will not put me to shame because God keeps pouring his Spirit into my heart, he keeps pouring his love into me and for that reason, I am filled with hope.

doubt becomes wonder (in romania)

the doubt had become as constant as my heartbeat
it pulsed like the blood in my veins
i was blindsided by the depths of these questions
shaking to my core
because it wasn't hypotheticals anymore
this was about a living, breathing person.

and with my doubt came this fear
he was as wild as a lion
crippling me to be as timid as a lamb.

God said go.
He was kicking me out of the country.
Suddenly, I knew how terrifying it was for Abraham to leave everything.
how could he leave his family?
his friends?
his safety?

this surely was the most absurd thing i had done.
leave the country when everything was falling apart?
they told me to trust God
to believe what he said when he claimed his goodness
suddenly i was David,
distressed and broken and demanding God of where he had been.
but just like David, i knew it to the core of my being.
he is so good.
he is so kind.

i have never known doubt like this
i begin to wonder if this doubt is robbing me of my faith
or if it is very thing that is creating a deep communion with my God

is this doubt turning me into a jaded Christian
or is it allowing me to be shaped, pressed and molded by my Father?

Audrey Assad, a Christian songwriter, who I believe is a pillar in modern-day faith. She is unafraid in writing her honest, painful lyrics. She is unafraid in sharing with a strict community how her faith has fallen, yet grown. Been destroyed, yet made new. In her recent album, she has a song called evergreen. the lyrics have been haunting me.

Out past the fear,
doubt becomes wonder,
rivers appear,
and I'm going under.

just beyond the fear is faith.
when my fear is so deep,
it becomes faith.
my doubt becomes wonder.

because in this deep place of uncertainty,
the terrible darkness that comes with being lost at night,
my fear that he will not save me,
my doubt that he is not there,
becomes wonder because he comes.

like the ocean that changes so quickly,
one moment my shore is covered in grace
and the next I'm lying bare before the sun.
one moment i'm proclaiming it from the rooftops,
and the next I am John the Baptist in the prison cell sending word to Jesus,
"are you really who you say you are?"
this doubt has pushed me deep into the embrace of my Savior
I have journeyed a road I did not ask for
I questioned his kindness,
again,
I doubted his love,
again,
 but he remained who he said he was


I left the country about a month ago. I didn't understand how leaving was the best thing, but I was obedient to the call. I went to the beautiful country of Romania where he reminded me of his goodness. He gently whispered promises of his faithfulness. He told me he did not need me, instead, he wanted me. The people of Romania demonstrated this truth to me. I was helping in a VBS and I didn't know the language and oftentimes, I felt more of a hindrance than a help. The Romanians constantly had to translate for me, but they chose to make me feel wanted and accepted. They knew they could function without me, but they made a place for me to belong. They reminded me that trusting God was about the process and I didn't have to have it all figured out. They showed me that missions is exactly what I'm doing at home. It happens naturally and intentionally. it is a demonstration of who Christ is and living that out practically and faithfully. Romania was a safe place for me and for that I am grateful. It was different than every other trip I have taken. I observed and learned a lot. My heart was given space to breathe and my mind a place to wrestle through my doubt and confusion, to find safety in where I was at in the process, to connect with Jesus. I don't have any wild and exciting ministry stories, I don't have any particular stories that changed my life, but I did witness faithful missionaries loving the people they are called to. They reminded me who I want to be and gave me a glimpse into the future I might hold.
Thank you to those who supported me in this journey, for those who threatened to drag me to the airport, for those who prayed for me and ultimately to Becca and Lucian who I stayed with and made it a remarkable experience for me.

Thank you, Romania.

honest confessions of a jaded christian

an earthquake had started.

this was the first time, in my life of commonplace earthquakes, that I let my heart quake. 

I let my heart fall into the broken earth

I allowed my feet to walk through the destruction. 

I let my faith falter. 

and once this earthquake began, it refused to stop. 

everything I once knew to be true had fallen on the ground.

Theologies, beliefs, values, and goals.

I could barely lift my eyes to see if they would break or if they would remain intact.

I closed my eyes and for the first time, 

with honest conviction,

I raged at God for allowing my earth to quake.

I gazed at the rubble and tears pooled like rivers on this ground. 

This time he would have to have a reason.

This time he would have to give me answers. 

when the earth first shook, I didn't dare look at the ruins. 

Instead, I built alters around them and claimed that God made it good.

It didn't matter that there were pieces of my bleeding heart underneath those poorly constructed alters trying to mask my ruins, because God made it good.

this time, I couldn't take my eyes off of the ruins. 

So angry, the words wouldn't come from my mouth.

So hurt, I couldn't bear to look at the one who allowed it. again and again and again.

I took down the alters and I picked up the pieces of my heart, still bruised, still bleeding, and I lifted them heavenward.

I pleaded this time. Oh Father, why? 

Why again would you allow this to happen?

His answer came, soft and gentle, but not immediately.

it was not until my pain came to a head, the fear bubbled over my nearly drowned heart, and he gently pushed me, far out of my comfort zone of control, across seas of details and safety nets.

He whispered I've got this one. 

I trusted and he reconnected my heart.

I looked again to him and he reintroduced myself to me.

I cried to him and he answered. 

The answer came from months of confusion.

From sleepless nights and broken hearts.

From late night conversations that spoke both truth and fears.

The answer came how I least expected it. 

The answer was not healing and it was not logic and sense.

No, the answer was Jesus. Because it didn't matter how long the pain lasted

or the night pressed in.

It didn't matter if the very sun quit shining and the grass stopped growing.

It didn't matter if this sadness in me continued to sink me like a stone

or this earth refused to stop shaking.

It didn't matter because there was Jesus. 

And he was standing on the water and He was asking me if I would follow Him.

His worth shone like gold in that moment.

Because yes, I would follow him. 

Yes, I would give him my everything.

Even if everything I knew to be true was taken away,

I would follow him.

But the answer of Jesus brings healing.

His name brings order to my chaos.

Peace to my storm.

Calm to my earthquake.

The answer was that 

if not, 

He is still good.

The response is

my life completely dedicated to him.

my world continues to shake,

my heart continues to open the door to fear

and dance with doubt

but how I long to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus

how I wait for the day when my confession matches my steps

and my heart is still despite the waves

until then, 

Jesus, 

I believe,

help my unbelief. 

unreachable hope

It was the kind that lingered. The kind of sunset that stayed longer than it was supposed to, miraculous almost. It faded, brighter and brighter as the sky got darker and darker. Florescent hues of pink fading into purples, slowly into blue.
As our laughter danced with the cool Spring breeze, I guarded mine. I didn't know if it would last, this bliss, this peace.
the sunset spoke volumes to my soul. I wanted so much for this Spring to come. I have been waiting. Longing for something to change. praying for a lot of things and a lot of people.
but the cold kept on. frigid air kept wrapping itself around my heart. constricting my breathing, anxiety winning.
because the what ifs kept swirling.
and swirling.
The tornado had formed with all of my questions, my fears.
it was an unstoppable force.
the thoughts were racing and icantstopthem. my mind is going anditneverquitestops.
doesn't He know that I desperately need answers?
doesn't He know that if this waiting lasts forever, I might let go?
He said that He knows, but my circumstances do not always reflect what I believe of goodness.


but there were moments. like this. on this rock. where for just a moment everything stopped. it was peaceful and we were talking about roller coasters and summertime. we remembered the joys of last summer and the times we got lost, and the times we hiked beyond our capacity.
these moments when peace settled into the most anxious parts of my soul. giving me hope that maybe those places wouldn't stay anxious forever.

the sunset, usually a farewell to the day, was instead a reminder that there were more to come, that the sun will rise.
the sunset, a kiss goodnight to a world ready to slumber, strokes back the darkness and whispers rest.
the sunset, this one, promised more long summer nights.
the sunset was a reminder that hope is a choice.
even if it is raining. even if there are clouds. even when the sunset is cloudless and not as beautiful as you hoped because the summer day was sticky and hot and there was no air conditioning to relieve you.

 hope is a choice. a choice to believe in something greater. a choice to believe that pain does not last forever. a choice to get up out of your misery. It doesn't even require you to look up at the sun, but instead, look at the one who has crawled in next to you in your pit, to look at the one who knows the way out and believe them when they say the sun is still shining. hope is a choice to take their hand and cling tightly. hope is a choice to follow them, even when you don't want to get out of bed, even when your heart aches, even when you don't want to wake up ever again. hope is choosing life in a valley of dry bones.

this sunset was hope to the unstoppable tornado in my heart. It was a reminder that tornados end, but sunsets will always be faithful.

He knows I need answers. He knows I seek control. But He also holds tightly to me and He knows that I hold His goodness close.

so even when the clouds are real, even when my heart is chaos, even then, I will wait, I will pray, and I will cling to unreachable hope. 

Easter for the broken

Oh heart, how could you not remember?

Oh heart, you've been all tangled up, all caught in a whirlwind of sorrow, trapped in a cavern of anxiety.

One day, its the pit of depression. The next, its a deep fear of the future.

Oh heart, where has your hope gone? All you can see is the storm in your view. The sun has not made an appearance for days, the sky has let loose a torrent of rain. And the winter, his hold is so tight. The battle between winter and spring is a discouraging endeavor. The flowers keep pushing, but the forecast keeps promising snow. Will it end?

Oh heart, where have you been? You were once so alive. You once beat with joy, and now you beat because of mere command by the brain. Your breaths were long and sweet, now short and gasping.

Oh heart, do not lose heart.

Sometimes, I forget about the moving power of the resurrection. Sometimes, my heart filled with discouragement wins. But I must remember. I must remember hope. I must remember his sacrifice.

2000 years ago, Jesus Christ saw my heart. He saw it drowning in the fear, he saw it bound by the sin, he saw it trapped by the sorrow. Before the foundation of time, my heart was in his hand. He knew my sin would disconnect me from him. He knew that this fallen world would write tragedy into my story, and he put a seal on my heart, long ago, and whispered of a coming redemption.

He came to the earth. And we know the story because we are the saved. We are the saved who feel broken, the redeemed who feel wrecked, the chosen who are tired. We know the story like the back of our hand, but the storm is all we see.

We cannot let the story lose its power.
He came to the earth, he lived his life, he healed the sick, he gave sight to the blind, he rose the dead. He was Jesus, God incarnate. The beauty is much deeper than the stories know and buried deeper behind the words. He had friends whom he laughed with, deep belly laughs that had him rolling on the floor. He had the ones he cried with, for the tragedies that took place. He had a mom who held him, and a dad who taught him. Can you only imagine? Those whose memories of Jesus were among their treasures.

And in the midst of this life, your broken heart was still precedent. The story that we are familiar with happened. Jesus went to the cross, betrayed and rejected by his friends. He forgave those who did not understand what they did, he loved from the cross. He breathed his last, the sky went dark, and for three hellish days, Jesus laid lifeless in the tomb. And the beauty of Easter is that he rose again, burying sin once and for all.

And it is the story that is supposed to comfort us, the sacrifice that is supposed to heal us.

But the storm still swirls, the tragedies still come, the memories still haunt. And it is not as if we aren't grateful for his sacrifice. We're just lost and drowning.

The truth is that in the midst of our storm, his sacrifice is enough. Jesus is enough. He came for you. He said that your life was worth his love and his sacrifice. Sometimes, 2000 years ago seems like too much time. Sometimes, we cannot feel his hand in ours and we start to lose our grip. Is it possible that we cannot feel his hand because we have gripped so hard we have lost our feeling? Sometimes, we look around and we do not see Him. Could it be that it is because he is just outside of our view, working a miracle?

The truth is that God's heart is for us. It is true that He came to the earth to die so that we might live. This is true in the deepest of sorrows and the greatest of joys. This is true at the bottom of the canyon and in the tops of the trees. This is true in the farthest galaxy and in the depths of my heart.

If you are broken this Easter, do not lose heart. You can rejoice in the steadfastness of this gift, in the eternity of his kindness, and in the graciousness of his love.

In this storm, remember the truth. In your blindness, remember your hope. This Easter, do not lose sight of his great love.

the River

The river snaked his way through the canyon of this valley. The trees fighting the winter beginning to turn green. Shades of green growing up the trees, the moss reviving, grass shooting up like wildflowers, the snowdrops gently growing as the snow melts. And the river, always faithful, always running, always bringing peace. The river, so lovely.

Like lightning, His voice came as I walked along the river. 

Follow Me like you follow the river.

I stopped. I'd been following the river as I always do when I walk along rivers. I always choose the path that keeps me closest to the river, my breath catches when the path leads me away from the river, fearful it will lead me away. 

Follow Me like you follow the river.

At that moment, I was at a curve in the path, it led away from the river. I knew it was only a moment, but I didn't want to take my eyes off the river, I didn't want to lead away from the peace it offered. At that moment, fear clenched me. Because I had to turn my face, I had to rely on the memory of his face, the distance of his voice, the faithfulness of his promise. 

It was only a moment. This leg of the path was so short in comparison. What did I fear? My capacity to wander. Walking along the river, I knew I would never turn from it. But if the path led me away, if only for a moment, what if there was a fork in the road? What if I forgot about the beauty the river had to offer? What if I turned away from the river forever?

His pursuit is greater than your ability to wander ~ Lisa Bevere 

Is this true? For the first time in my life, I stumbled upon my capacity to drift away. At this crossroads, I knew I had the innate ability to walk away from the river for some other object of temporary beauty. It terrified me, nearly crippling. But I had to keep walking, I couldn't stay right here, by this part of the river. I had to move forward, leaning on the promise that the river wouldn't end before I saw it again, falling into the hope that as I listened to it, it was still there. So I moved forward. No longer could I see the river, but I heard it. Was it enough?

His pursuit is greater than your ability to wander ~ Lisa Bevere

I have the capacity to drift from my faith. It is inside of me. Overwhelmed by this fear and trepidation, shocked by where my heart had landed, paralyzed by the place that my thoughts had led me, afraid at how far I was from Him, I am leaning heavily on the promise that his pursuit of me is greater than my ability to wander. 

I am wandering. Drifting. Losing my footing. My feet have led me to a place of disbelief and doubt. My mind is racing with thoughts of the world. I wrestle with the evidence I see in the world of pain and suffering and I attempt to compare that to a good Father who pursues us. A kind Lover who recklessly follows us.

Because there are two of me. There is the one that looks around at the tragic circumstanes and demands to God, "where are you? What are you doing? Do you even care?" The one where doubts rage like a wildfire, consuming all of me. My ability to wander is bigger than anything I've ever known.

There is the one that sees his kind hand. The one who sees Jesus when a friend weeps in my arms, who sees his tender heart in the gift of friendship or someone texts me and asks to go for breakfast before Church when I tell myself I'm never going back.

The first is my ability to wander, the second is his pursuit of me. 

How undeserving this heart, how gracious is His. 

I will choose the River. But in moments when I don't, when I choose to wander, I will come back. His pursuit of me will remind me of the river, stir in my memories of the peace and joy of the river. I have chosen to follow Him and so, as He leads me along the River, no matter what arises in my path, he remains faithful, gently calling as the River does, growing louder with the waterfalls, calming my heart in the hurricanes. I will follow the River.

Oh, how undeserving this heart, how gracious is His.

plagued by promises, a prisoner of hope

I'm listening to a song of hope. It's called Mountain to Valley by Jason Upton. The chorus washes over my frightened spirit. "There's one thing I can't escape: Your Love. From the mountain to the valley, from the silence to the city street... Your Presence always covers me."

I listen to it on repeat, letting my tired heart drown in its gentle reminder of hope.
And then it says something outrageous.

Plagued by your promises.

What?

Jason, I hope you know, plagues aren't a good thing. Typical Leah, I looked up the definition.

plague noun : a destructively numerous influx

                        an epidemic disease causing a high rate of mortality.

I was singing this song. Did I know what I was asking for?

Oh, Jesus, I want to be plagued by your promises. I want this destructive influx of promises to come in and wreck my soul. I want it to destroy my hopelessness. I want it to weaken my white fists wrapped tightly around the illusioned control of my life. I want this plague to ravage my soul until it has taken everything. I want this epidemic disease to take effect and ruin me. I've never been so thirsty for destruction and ruin.

Does this prayer terrify me? Absolutely.
 The hopelessness I see when I look around me is frightening. I'm wounded by the pain I see. The devastating loss. The crippling sorrow. The oppressive anxiety. The lies that steal the truth. I want hope to sneak in like a plague and wipe it all away.

I want hope. I want it desperately, the way a flower needs water to grow. I want hope, the way the ground needs rain to cultivate. I want, in the midst of this chaotic, terrifying, painful life, for hope to drown me in the goodness of God.

This is a hope that will follow me no matter the circumstance. I want to see it when I look back, when I walk on the path of my life and when I attempt to foresee my future. I want that hope. I desire it when I scroll through Facebook and see cancer diagnosis and horror stories of abuse and torture. I need it when a friend cannot see the light or questions her worth. I long for it because the world doesn't make sense. The pain isn't going away. The struggle is remaining far more real than I ever imagined. I long for it because the ache in me for Heaven is real. The peace that is there, the loved ones who have gone, the presence of Jesus.
So I need the hope. I need to be plagued by Your promises. Take me captive, Jesus, to be Your Prisoner of Hope.

Zechariah 9:11-12
As for you, also, because of the blood of my covenant with you. I will also set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. Return to your stronghold O prisoners of hope."