Thankfulness for the Lack

Sometimes the things Jesus says are baffling. Jesus had just been preaching to a city that didn't respond. A city that didn't care. A city he condemned to Hell. And here comes the crazy part. After this frustration of non responsiveness. After watching the tragedy of people He came to save turn away when He offered himself, he prayed. But he didn't say, "God, why?" He said this: "I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding...yes, Father, this was your precious will." What? Thank you that these people didn't accept my love, Thank you that all the work I just did went by the wayside.
That right there, is a hard prayer.
Coming off a week of camp where I didn't get much response, this passage is hurting my head. Because it broke my heart to see no hunger in my campers for the word of God, it was frustrating when they talked and giggled their way through my devotion that I spent time and thoughts on. And that's what Jesus had to feel. He watched the people he loved on, the people he spent time with, the people he dedicated his ministry to, he watched them turn away. He knew his message was the only one to save, yet he watched them turn away, and he let them. Because he loved them. Wrap your head around that one. I was given these girls for the course of one week, to serve, to love on, and to disciple. And this week, service was hard, love wasn't returned and I watched them build walls against the discipleship I offered. And if I want to be like Jesus. I need to offer thanksgiving in the lack, because I can't see the completion of the promise offered, just as Abraham didn't see his nation. Maybe, the Spirit used my words to plant seeds, or they will be remembered in the years to come. Maybe it was just a carrying out of the summer theme verse. "I will boast in my weaknesses so that Christ's power my rest on me." Because as always, I tried to be strong in my power, yet through that, Christ worked in my weakness of a desire for control. Whatever the reason, it was for the glory of God. And maybe there was so much more than met the eye.
So I will aim to be like Jesus and thank him for the lack. Even if it is a hard prayer, even if it hurts to let go of the control.
God's faithfulness is fantastic, because through the crazy week, I didn't take much time to step back and reflect. It's a go, go, go experience. We've got to be here, I've got to change my devotional for tonight, the one I planned doesn't apply, I've got to do, and most importantly I've got to sleep. But now, at home, stepping back, I've realized what God was trying to teach me. The campers were never mine. It was never my role to save them, or change them. That is something God does in His awesome power. I also think he was trying to teach me the importance of rest. Friday morning I got sick so I was counselor down for the count, and I took 3 much needed naps, had time to breathe and fellowship with fellow staff. It was sad, not being about to interact with my campers for a few hours, but I think he was continually showing me these girls were His, not mine, he loved them, and he had plans for them and he didn't need me in order to fulfill them. And he loved me, and he knew I needed rest, so he gave me that gift through my surrender of them to Him.
This morning in Sunday School we learned about building alters of thanks wherever we go. The teacher had us take a rock and build an alter after where we've seen God actively working recently. I realized that even though throughout the camp week, I didn't see God's hand in many things, I see it now. I'm thankful for the week he's given me, I'm thankful for the things I've learned and most importantly I'm thankful for the lack.
And I can sing the words of the hymn this morning in church honestly:

Great is thy faithfulness,

Great is thy faithfulness,

Great is thy faithfulness,

morning by morning new mercies I see.

All I have needed,

Thy hand hath provided.

Great is thy faithfulness.

Empty My Hands

Oh, how quickly I've forgotten.
Oh, how I've grown so restless and unsatisfied.
How often have I made it to the alter, ready to surrender my entire life and laid it down before you?
Yet all too rashly, snatching my favorite parts back because I love the feel of their touch to my thirsting heart and I fear I will never see them again. I love the joy they bring to my soul, the relief they bring to my life. And I take them back once again, so stealthily that I barely realize I've done it.
You look at my hands, overflowing with the gifts You've given to me, the gifts I've hoarded selfishly, the gifts I've forgotten to share and entrust back to the Giver. The things I hold all too tightly overflow and God, I've given you no room to hold my hand or my heart. You shake your head whispering "You've done it again, my precious child..." And like Hosea, you buy back your unfaithful bride you "allure me and bring me into the wilderness, you speak tenderly to me. You will remove the names of the [idols] from my mouth."
In love and utter faithfulness you allure me to you with the dissatisfaction of the meaninglessness of the daily, you put the unquenchable thirst in my soul, that can only be satisfied by You. I am the woman at the well, searching for meaning and acceptance and you tell me that You are the only Water that can satisfy, my idols will never suffice. The items I've built alters for, the people I've placed on pedestals, were blessings given from You. But I've loved them into idols, I've worshiped their existence in my life instead of the Savior who has given.
If only I would let go of the things I hold so dear, you could hold my hand and use these gifts to lead my back to your glory. My hands are full and it has emptied my heart. So, Lord, open my hands because I hold so tight, let me "taste and see that you are good." Because once I've tasted, I'm sure my hunger will be set ablaze again. I will be always searching, always wanting more of you. Let me have gratitude for the things you've done. Let me not be like the 9 lepers you healed, who turned their face without a simple 'thank you.' Let me be the remaining leper, who turned to praise you at my healing, and received an even deeper healing: salvation. Lord, I don't want to be just healed, I want to be saved. Lord, I don't want be be just saved, I want to be sanctified.
In gratitude, I remember what you have done, I thank for what you have given. In gratitude, I'm awed by the many times you've bought me back, the many times you've had to quench my spiritually dehydrated soul because again I've run, again I've searched for meaning in other things, again I've taken back my life.  In gratitude, I am the 10th leper who turned, knowing what you've done for me, asking for more than just healing, asking for You for forever. In gratitude, I will ask for more of You. Only You can satisfy.
The words of Tenth Avenue North could not have captured it better: "Oh, empty my hands, fill up my heart. Capture my mind with you."
Empty my hands.

Reflections

 The Spontaneity I've embarked on, it's like my fingertips brushed against the face of God. The friends I've loved, harder than ever before, held my hand, guiding me through life with their laughter and smiles. The joy I've felt, was born deep inside of me, but set on the flame of the Spirit, bubbles higher than ever before. And I hope if a heart were to look at mine, they'd see love, they'd feel joy, they'd meet Jesus.
Time has flown by, developed sonic speed, laughing in my face as it escapades past in a rush of love and memories. Leaves me breathless, with a lack of words, remembering not the moments I sat idly, but the moments I forgot to stop moving, leaving my house in a whirlwind, stopping only long enough to catch a breath of fresh air.
Because the memories I hold encapsulate the photoshoot in the rain, buying outrageously expensive umbrellas. Just to remember. Lying underneath the stars on a cold May evening, on a playground labeled "No Trespassing." Freezing huddled under a blanket not quite long enough to stretch over the three of us. Laughing until I fear I've broken a rib, as tears stream down my face. Thunderstorms at work inspire us to dance in the rain, pouring around us, in an empty parking lot. Driving way too fast on back roads, country music blasting out our windows, smiles dancing in our eyes. Eating ice cream at least once a week as it hurts my sensitive teeth, promising me it is not a dream, I'm still alive. Staying awake until 3am, whispering secrets and lives, reflecting on who we are, where we've been, what we have become. I've not regretted sitting in a library for hours searching for books that my alter my world, if only a little, might broaden my horizons, if only a lot.
It feels only yesterday a little girl stood at my door asking to be best friends on my first day of first grade. The new girl in the neighborhood, I was. It feels only yesterday that same girl and I made hairbands out of flowers, and I cried when she found new friends. It feels only yesterday that playing in the schoolyard was my entire world, tragedy painted when a friend didn't show up for school. We loved, we lived. And then middle school came, and still it feels like a heartbeat ago, I thought I was in love, and I had my first dance. Only minutes ago, when I fell hard into reality. A boy we loved acted in the moment, feeling instead our hate, killing his pain. In the process, leaving children to mourn something we couldn't yet understand. Cancer personified into something, not just a story I'd read in my library books. But an enemy taken residence in a loved one. The moment I had to be a best friend for real, and comfort tragedy acted in a cold anger, in thoughtless actions. Bitter to touch, the kind we were certain would never strike our fears, our lives. Yesterday, when I lay upside down on a bed staring at the ceiling with three of the most beautiful girls in the world and we lamented the fact that high school was endless. When could we move on? When could we dream? A second ago, when I had to breathe the words goodbye through tears and clenched fists for the first time, to my mother, my other half. A moment ago, when God asked for my heart again and it became His, as He painfully tore idols down, broke my heart, and built it back again. Auntie Annes and popcorn. Trees with babies and mugs for a dime. Broken necklaces and 13 hour car rides.  These memories that dance in my head with time. Yet again, time has been a reckless thief. He has broken so many hearts, and shattered so many dreams. But I'll step in and take the lead because these thoughts are mine, these memories were are gift to me from God above, as he wanted me to see who I was and how He made me who I am. Time continues to run, faster than I'm okay with, but I love and I dream. I want to be the old woman we visited in a nursing home. Remembering wasn't a painful affair, she loved, she lived, she traveled and acted on her dreams. She can look back and smile. She doesn't need to whisper, "God, why didn't I do that...?" I want to be like that woman. I want to say I loved and was loved. My dreams are big, they don't have much of a direction quite yet, but I believe that is something God will lead me to, but until then, I dream, I live, I love. I breathe.

Poems from a Broken Writer's Block

Friendship
Mingling of souls,

as I realize this is what I was created for.

An understanding of commonality,

a basis for trust,

for love.

When the catharsis comes,

no judgement

just acceptance as tears fall down a face.

As the testimony is formed,

it binds us together,

it makes us one.

Who we were and who we have become,

weaving us together as a flawless bride.

Laughter,

a diaphragm contracts,

a joyful kind of pain,

the hilarity of nothing,

yet the alleviation of something.

A felicity that takes all the doubts away.

Together we are.

These meaningless words,

fail to define a friendship,

flounder under the meaning,

waste away under the love.

Little had they known,

this friendship provided a balm,

a healing,

for a wounded heart.

When a satisfied slumber falls over our eyes,

and silence is whispered in our ears,

we feel what it means to be called a friend.

The weight of such a calling,

is light, 

yet heavy.

The capacity of such a love,

is unrelenting.

Yet all just an obscure mirror reflection,

of Love himself.

A hazy image of the godly friendship

of the Trinity.

Time
Time is a thief.

Stealing away these precious moments,

eroding away at my sacred memories.

It does not stop for the eyes that need 

just one more smile to encapsulate a broken heart

with joy.

It tears through space,

every dreadfully long second,

forcing you to whisper,

"how long?" 

into the expanse.

Yet the mind is strong,

there is this sanctuary that it has locked those memories into.

Granting access only to the beholder herself,

not to time,

or the ocean waves that torment the shores of her heart.

Every so often,

she's lost the key. 

She cannot find where she kept it,

she's convinced time has stolen it away.

She cries because she cannot remember the face,

her heart refuses to search.

The key though,

is her heart.

She understands that she is but a blink away from 

opening her sanctuary,

her safe haven,

her heart.

To behold these memories,

that bring pain and felicity,

joy and sorrow,

but most importantly love.

So open your heart,

that is a key and

sanctuary itself,

and breathe

because time has not stolen the memories,

it has stolen only itself.

A Dangerous Prayer

I want Jesus to wreck my world. I want Him to come and ruin my soul. Ruin my soul according to His desires for my life. I want Him to come and burn down every idol I've placed high on a pedestal above Him. I want Him to bring destruction to my selfish heart. I want Him to tear down my walls, the ones that keep me safe inside of this dangerously comfortable life. I want to be tested with provocative questions that convict my soul and leave me barren and open. I want my wounds to be cleansed with something far deeper than antiseptics. I want Him to cleanse away the sin that pushed me to this broken place. Once again. I want my future to frighten me, so I'm sure it's out of my hands.
I don't want to be worshiping idols when Jesus died on a cross and saved my life. Revived my soul. I don't want a selfish, conceited heart. I don't ever want to be so worried about my own life, so caught up in my ridiculous problems, that I miss caring for an orphaned child, a broken spirit and a homeless heart. I don't want to live comfortably. When I fall asleep at night in my warm bed, I want to remember the children that are sleeping under the stars.  I don't want these wounds to fester when the Healer tells me to just surrender. I don't want to be the one that weaves a tapestry of my future. I don't want to want when I have all I could ever need in my salvation.
I want my desires to reflect the One who created me. I want to love the least of these.
With absolutely no idea where God's plan for my life is, I'm jumping in blinded. I will walk by faith and not by sight. I will trust his wonderful, miraculous plan for my life. Wherever it may be. 
I want to pray this dangerous prayer. A prayer that will take me far from my comfort zone. A prayer that will move mountains of complacency in my life. A prayer that asks to be taken apart but never asks to be put back together again because He tells me "My Grace is sufficient for you." I want the words that slip from my mouth, the words that flow from my pen onto my paper to be genuine. I want to pray a dangerous prayer and mean it with my everything.

Jesus, 
come and wreck my life. 
Tear it to pieces so that I can be used by you.
And only you. 
Give me the strength to do radical things.
Not for me, and my glory.
But so that you can be glorified.
Above All.

Suicide Awareness Day Poem

The years have passed,

flown by,

just like all the adults promised us.

The memories have distanced,

we forget to wonder why.

But your story never leaves us,

your story is the truth that lingers.

Your pain is the scream,

the scream that never lets us deafen our ears.

Before, we tried not to look.

We excused ourselves from the pain we caused.

But your death left us aware.

It left us with guilt on our hands.

It changed some of us,

opened our eyes.

It passed by the others.

But we knew we couldn't just watch anymore.

The tears in your sister's eyes told us that.

Your best friend's broken heart,

it reminds me every time I see him.

Even five years later.

Sometimes I wonder, 

who you would be.

What your aspirations would have been,

if we would still be friends.

If maybe you would forgive us. 

Your death,

my friend,

was the hardest thing my 8th grade self had faced.

Your death, 

I wish I could have changed,

but I couldn't.

So today,

I have to learn. 

I have to learn to look for you in everyone I see. 

I can't close my eyes.

I can't deafen my ears to the silent screams that I know are around me.

If you listen,

they come in broken hearts,

empty eyes,

scars. 

I want to look like Love to the broken.

I want to bring Jesus to the lost.

I will not forget you, 

my friend.

 

So the question remains, How can we not forget? How can we not allow his death to be in vain? There are so many people walking around with the same pain my 8th grade friend was walking around with. Sometimes, you can't see it. Sometimes you can. So all we can do is look like Love. Look like Jesus, if just for a little. Don't ignore them because we don't know what to say. Don't walk away when you see bullying. Show them what love really means. Jesus came to bring life to the lost. We are all lost and dying until Jesus saves our life. Literally sweeps through and saves our life. Picks us up from the pits of Hell. We are chained, and he unlocks us. We are broken and he heals us. We were on the verge of dying. All spiritually, some physically. Some at the point of giving up. But Jesus can give them Life! For their dead hearts, for the people that want to give up. But they won't know his Love until we give it to them. They won't know we are different until we write Love on their arms. Until we look like Love.

So Much More Than Meets The Eye

Life is a beautiful thing. Our beginning is a cell, and somehow we are woven into the creation of a thinking, breathing, walking human being. DNA makes our character, our emotions and what makes us feel alive. When our souls feel crushed and our hearts are broken, our eyes know how to cry. When joy bubbles inside of us, our mouths remember to smile.
We grow, we walk, we laugh, we cry, we bleed, we run. Only a God so magnificent and all-powerful could have created us. He made an never-ending universe with galaxies full of stars, a blanket over heaven laced with holes, a glimpse of glory.
And still, He thinks of us. Still, He knows our name. Still, He holds our hearts.
He created life. He created people.
People are absolutely incredible. We have stories and hurts, wounds and scars, hidden loss and joy, desires and laughter. Yet we only reveal the things we want people to see and hide the things we are terrified that they might see. There is so much more to us than meets the eye.
And this summer, I met some beautiful people. Their stories have images that barely scratch the surface of who they are. Their eyes reflect the love of Christ and their smiles promise us that we are not alone in our battles. I heard testimonies of people who have walked through incredible pain and come out on the other side healed by Christ. Each and every one was so different, yet so alike.
 I met a little boy with a tender heart searching for love, the true Love. Children who's stories I pray aren't quite finished yet. I have seen joy etched on a child's face when she knew her Savior was in her heart.
I have met girls who just have a desire to fit in, a desire to be beautiful by this world's painful standards. Girls who pray that life won't turn out the way they fear. Girls with such precious spirits and a desire to follow God and just figuring out how.
God made us all so different, and we can't hold back because of that. He made us with different gifts, physical and spiritual.
He made us so we could guide each other, hold hands when it's dark and we are blinded by our selfish hearts in the middle of trial.
The stories that felt so painful at the time, when the pen was dragged across the tender spot of your heart, was beautiful when the words were aligned and the dark ink was shining from the light.
God doesn't waste a story with a tear-jerking middle. He doesn't waste a climax that makes you want to rewrite the entire story. He ends every story with a purpose. With a testimony.
This summer I saw my testimony used. I felt my faith stretched. I know God's not finished with me yet. Sometimes I wish He were, because I feel like I'm at just the right point, like I could stay right here forever. But He has more. More hurts, more smiles, more trials, more joys. So I trust that as this summer of my life that was just a beautiful chapter in the book of my life closes, the rest of the book will be wonderful, no matter where the Author of my life thinks my character needs to be tested and stretched. He has the pen, and I've given Him the tablet of my heart.