at the dawn//walter brueggemann

Our first glimpse of reality this day--everyday--is your fidelity.
We are dazzled by the ways you remain constant among us,
                          in season, out of season,
                          for better, for worse,
                          in sickness and in health.
You are there in watchfulness as we fall asleep;
You are there in alertness when we awaken...and we are glad.
             Before the day ends, we will have occasion
                          to flag your absence in indifference...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
             Before the day ends, we will think more than once
                          that we need a better deal from you...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
             Before the day ends, we will look away from you and
                          relish our own fidelity and our virtue in mercy...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
Now, at the dawn, our eyes are fixed on you in gladness.
             We ask only that your faithfulness
                          permeate every troubled place we are able to name,
                          that your mercy
                          move against the hurts to make new,
                          that your steadfastness
                          hold firmly what is too fragile on its own.
And we begin the day in joy, in hope, and in deep gladness. Amen.

leaving oceanside

The hardest part about leaving Oceanside was leaving Oceanside.  I cried every day of my last week and a double portion on my last day. I would not miss 10 hour days and 2 hour commutes and sharing a schedule with the sun; I would not miss complete and utter exhaustion and I would be happy to enjoy things like rest and the energy to call a friend and time for play. But oh, I would miss Oceanside.

My biggest fear in leaving Oceanside was the inevitable distance between the richness of that time and place, and the life I would surely settle into 30 miles away. Richness seems like such a strange word to use when considering how my time there was spent: addressing symptoms of poverty and hearing stories of struggle and pushing back against so much heartache. And yet, hardly twenty-four hours goes by without me remembering the richness of conversations in my classroom, of the honor of being trusted, the gospel preached to me in such a peculiar way, and by such foreign priests.

Father Greg, one of my heroes, says of his time in Bolivia:

"I can't explain how the poor in Bolivia evangelized me during that year of 1984-85, but they turned me inside out, and from that moment forward I only wanted to walk with them. I knew that the poor had some privileged delivery system for giving me access to the gospel.  Naturally, I wanted to be around this."

I guess Oceanside was my Bolivia. Giving me access to Jesus in a way that is out of reach when I settle into my busy life and avoid the streets where He would've walked. Something truly rich is added to my faith when I get the privilege of learning Jesus and His heart for justice, and (maybe possibly even) being opened up to see the world (and a few beautiful souls) with the Mind of Christ.
Still, I only want to walk with them.

whole.

"In this life, traces of [separation from God] are still with us. We are inseparably linked to our unredeemed flesh. Our bodies are mortal. Not just the bones and muscles, glands and senses, but mind and emotion as well. That vast, unbelievably intricate, electronic, chemical complex which is culturally, genetically, diabolically (at times), geographically, and pathologically-influenced mortality."                                          --James Bryan Smith//The Good and Beautiful God

via

Probably the most important lesson that I continue to learn with anxiety is that there is a distinction between wholeness and healing. It is subtle, yes, but hugely important: the difference between an attitude of thanksgiving versus resentment, understanding versus confusion, freedom versus shame. I willed healing for my anxiety by the mantra: "God is a healer, thus God wants me healed." I started with scripture about God's ability to heal things crazy enough as demon possession and blindness and even raising life from the dead, then added my own deductions about God's vision of restoration and his love for me personally only to find myself with a sense of entitlement for God's healing and a shame that it had not yet happened. Then, the tension of evaluating what healing really means for us now.

My first understanding of healing was created in utero. Before I was even born, I was the granddaughter-great granddaughter-niece-cousin-second cousin-third cousin of a doctor. A very intelligent man or woman trained to fix our broken bodies. Any sickness, an antibiotic. Anything broken, reset. We never stayed sick because we always had the resources, the intelligence and the sense of self-worth to fix our broken selves. With my anxiety, resources, intelligence and self-worth were called into question--God was the only solution.

Is it just me or do we have a tendency to approach God as if He is the man in a white coat with prescription pad waiting? Whatever works, I'll take it. 14 days, twice a day until--ta da!--you're healed, good as new. When my anxiety hit, my first response was to pray to this highly trained doctor-God. Pray that God would take it away, pray that God would heal my mind and adjust my neural pathways, giving me new chemicals and new brain cells. I was asking and hoping for a miracle. At times, it was so severe that I would sleep with my bible under my pillow, to rest my head on scripture, hoping that healing would come through osmosis. It was a theologically incorrect act of desperation, as many of us will take when living in pain, shame or isolation due to illness.

The theology of healing is complex, but when we see God as only the keeper of the means for physical healing, we miss a beautiful opportunity to expand our definition of "healer" and see a bigger picture for our lives. 

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."     -Psalms 147:3

Anybody who has dealt with any kind of chronic illness--physical or mental--longs to know God as a healer. Tangible healing. But sometimes, God chooses not to use your body for a miracle. Sometimes, you are not the woman whose bleeding is stopped or the man whose sight is restored. Sometimes, your body continues its natural progression toward death. When our desired definition of healing doesn't come, we have to ask--"What does healing mean?" It just might be a question of semantics for our scientific world.

Enter: wholeness versus healing.

Heal: the act or process of becoming well; the state of your physical body

Whole: unbroken, not damaged; an indicator of your identity in Christ

Biblically speaking, healing always carries with it the idea of "wholeness." That is to say, wholeness is a crucial part of healing. When Jesus heals, He always restores. With every healing act, we are given a tangible sign of eternity. He reverses the pull of death for just a moment and we see fullness of life restored. Souls feel their worth and lives are brought back into relationship, brought out of isolation.

• The Woman with the Flow of Blood (Mark 5)
• Blind Man Receives His Sight (Mark 10)
• A Woman Has Seven Demons Cast Out (Mark 16)

via

But, healing is not a crucial part of wholeness. Our bodies are in a state of decay--it's undeniable. We were never promised to live with these bones forever. And yet, one can be made whole even as bodies decay, even with a chemical imbalance or bodily malfunction. One can still be restored in the eyes of God and community without being physically healed. More often than not in our world, this is the case. Illness of any kind can leave us with a sense of being broken, ashamed, isolated--little thieves of abundant lives. But Jesus came for abundant life and wholeness is a byproduct of knowing Him. His life reverses the death in us. Wholeness from Him tells us who we are, binds up our broken hearts, removes shame and graces us with relationship with Him. 

That is the gift of wholeness that physical healing alone cannot give. I take great comfort in that as I recognize that anxiety may be a forever-ailment. To live out of my wholeness in the midst of anxiety, knowing that there will come a day when anxiety is put to rest, when my flesh is redeemed. Until then...

I am not healed, but I am whole.

[re]considering beauty

"The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It's the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows and the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years."

--Audrey Hepburn

I have nothing new to say about beauty, only what I've experienced. Nothing I say will be all that special and certainly many women have overcome far more than I. I don't have a story about learning to love myself despite missing limbs or an eating disorder that took hold of my life or any other heart-wrenching story about being at odds with the cultural values of beauty. I only have my experience and my belief that a conversation about beauty is a conversation worth having.

March, 2009: Very short hair

In January of 2009, I chopped off 13 inches of hair. It was an odd decision, considering that I was always told, "Long hair is pretty hair." I believed it too. But, in January of 2009, I was not quite myself. In January of 2009, I described myself frequently as a "ball of mess." In that ball was wrapped up joylessness, darkness, fears of failure and feelings of unworthiness and a complete inability to see God as Himself, or myself as the woman I was. I felt ugly, body and soul, and I hated the way I defined myself. IAll this coming from a girl who received compliments, whose parents lavished praise, who had good eyebrows and a body that was just the right size. My insecurities were normal and because of that, they were normalized. But I hated that I felt the need for hair--dead follicles--to make me feel beautiful. I cut it all off, wondering and hoping if a detachment from what the world said I should be would make me feel more like the me that I wanted to be. I felt empowered, holding years worth of growing and striving in my hands. I saw it as a distinguishing moment, a fresh start, as if I was cutting off all that was dead within me. 

With a set of scissors, I transformed from a cultural image of femininity to an undefined woman. There was struggle that came along with it. One moment, confident in all that I was without hair, the next, trying to convince the world that I was still what they wanted: beautiful, worthy, valuable, feminine, a woman. Particularly helpful were comments from the people in my life, openly showing their disapproval: "Don't you miss it?," "I just like long hair so much better," or, my personal favorite: "Just don't become a lesbian, okay?"

In those moments, I was sad. I was sad for the urge that we all feel to look like the girls in magazines; sad for the urge to adjust our own temple of expression to the idea of beauty that the world holds. I was sad that having short hair took "bravery," that we were all admitting to hiding behind pretty and long locks. I was sad for the ease with which I let statements like that make me feel ugly (or for feeling ugly independent of statements of disapproval), for wondering if a man would ever pay attention to me (especially on a college campus), sad that sexuality was wrapped up in "beauty," sad for feeling like something was missing that went beyond thirteen inches of hair.

But in that time, on days when I struggled with bobby-pins or my anxiety-induced weight fluctuation, when I compared myself to the "perfect" girl to my left in Calculus or when I cried because I looked like a boy, all that was dead within me was brought back to life. Probably not because I cut off my hair, but because I admitted defeat and gave up control. It was a fast of sorts: I gave up trying and striving, and my attention was lovingly refocused on more important things. During that time, I found myself belonging to community, being accepted for what my heart could bring, discovering that I enjoyed making art, learning to love, traveling to Jamaica, finding healing from anxiety, finally being honest with myself. During that time, I became who I wanted to be, even without hair. That fact alone made me feel more beautiful than any curls or extra inches ever could.

I say all of this to let you know that I understand the struggle to feel beautiful. I understand that the issue of beauty has more wrapped up inside of it: self-expression, acceptance, worthiness, security; at the same time, it brings us to striving, to wasted time in front of a mirror, time that could be spent doing anything else. I understand the tension and allure of being beautiful. Beauty is a gift from God, but perfectionism is not. Beauty is a gift from God, but He cares more about what you're doing to bring life to the world than what shirt you're wearing. Beauty is a gift from God, but He'd rather see you learn how to love than learn how to apply eye make-up perfectly. He'd rather you grow your wisdom and knowledge of Him than your hair and He has a greater purpose for your life than trying to meet an impossible standard of beauty. And even knowing this and finding relief in the truth of it, I still find myself saying, "I just want to look cute today and I don't think that God finds it wrong." I really, truly don't. The issue of beauty is complex. 

magik Beauty Store

Over three years, my hair has grown back. It's long and healthy and I can curl it whenever I want. I love that. Occasionally, I find myself looking to it for affirmation. There is a deeper concern, though, because not everybody struggles with the tension of beauty. Not everybody believes in a God who redefines it; they simply accept what the world says as ultimate truth. I work with young men and women who already have their own ideas of beauty, and it doesn't stop with thirteen year olds. Girls want the perfect eyebrow shape, dark hair and light eyes. [In very uncomfortable interactions, they tell me each day that they'd trade their dark and "boring" eyes for my light eyes. They don't know that I once, in a very awkward time in life, hated my eye color and wore blue contacts because blue eyes were "prettier."] Girls will let no emotion show on their faces because they don't want the laugh or worry lines, or they will spend an entire day at school with a mirror hidden in their purse, applying and reapplying mascara. And boys want the typical "hot girl," a look that no thirteen year old girl (or any-age girl) can ever achieve (nor should they feel forced to spend their time trying). These cultural ideals are passed along through generations so that we learn to strive after them, but we are forgetting to train our kids, or retrain ourselves, to care about what beauty truly is.

Maybe because we still don't know. 

We are forgetting to tell ourselves that an unforgiving heart is uglier than any set of bushy eyebrows.

We refuse to accept that hatred shows itself on a person's face and it is not a wonderful thing to behold.

That a mouth full of criticism is more unattractive than laugh lines or cellulite. 

That short hair, even a pixie cut, is more attractive than a mean spirit on any day of the week. 

That clothes, hair and makeup are accessories (fun ones at that!), but never the defining feature of a person.

No one tells us that unique self-expression is beautiful. Very few people grow up aware of the freedom  and beauty of being different, living to different standards.

We forget that by the standards of models or magazines, you could be completely perfect, but if you lack love, 

you are nothing. 

The mentor in me comes out to say this:

Many old, wise people have said "there is more to beauty than what meets the eye." It's true, and I want the world to believe it. So strive for beauty, look cute doing it, but please, I'm begging you, do it in the ways that matter. Don't lose sight of your value, your true identity, or the person that you want to be at the end of the day or the end of your life. The world is an ugly enough place on its own. 

Take care of the dead inside of you to find yourself as an embodiment of what is truly beautiful.

For further reading about beauty:

Good Women Project

The Resurgence: What is Beautiful?

Wonderfully Made

"Sometimes, people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are."

--Marcus Zuzak

mud + spit + oaks of righteousness

Have you seen the way that I journal? 

It's a bit nuts, I know, but it helps me to make sense of all the thoughts inside of my head. I'm hugely visual, and, when I have time, I pretend to be intellectual. (Okay, pretend might be the wrong word.) I love times with my Bible and all of the resources that I use to understand it more fully. To me, reading the Bible void of context, without knowing the people, the time, the place, seems frustratingly incomplete. For me to know the Lord more completely, I need to STUDY. Which means resource books laying everywhere, multiple colors of pens, dictionaries and blank paper. Occasionally, when I am disciplined enough to participate and open enough to receive, I get some strange and beautiful insight into my life that makes me know + love the Lord all the more. For now: 

1 As he passed by, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" 3 Jesus answered, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him. 4 We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world." 6 Having said these things, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva. Then he anointed the man's eyes with the mud 7 and said to him,"Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent). So he went and washed and came back seeing.               [john 9:1-7, esv]

I can't separate this passage, with all of its rich meaning, from what I feel stirring in my own heart about family and restoration and freedom from my assumptions about the nature of God. This blind man could be any one of us, with physical ailments or emotional baggage, and the world asks (and us right along with them), "Whose fault is it?" We need someone to blame, something to make sense of why things are the way that they are. A perfect God would never allow causeless imperfection, so it must be our fault. The disciples thought this way initially. (More extreme, we think that imperfection=the non-existence of God, but I'm not getting into that.) Blindness because of sin. Cause and effect reality, void of grace. Credit it, maybe, to ancient philosophy: Sickness is a product of sin; he is blind because of something he did, or something his parents did. Sin stalks through the generation. It's what they believe. It's a sad and cruel way to understand God, inaccurate and damaging, giving evil far more power than it deserves. How shaming, how isolating, to think that He keeps record of our wrongs through the generations, forgetting that forgiveness is His constant gift + His mercies are new with the morning. We've heard the phrase though, and it's frightening:

generational sin

This line of thinking is not foreign to me, with anxiety and fear of the legacy of divorce in my family. But I love this passage, because in the competition between cruelty and compassion, the character of Christ is revealed. 

I love that this passage draws us back to the earth, back to the way the world works: "In this world, there will be suffering, but take heart, I have overcome the world." This is the way the world works: we were born into a world full of sickness and sin (separateness from God + the things of God). God loves us no less for it. We were born into families that conditioned our behavior, for good or for bad. God loves us no less for it. We were born unable to see, through no fault of our own (Jesus said so), and God loves us no less for it. Ultimately, His purposes win. His purpose: healing. Relational + physical. For this man, it was physical and immediate. Drawn back to the earth, almost to force us to reevaluate the goodness/badness of nature, that tendency of ours to blame creation. We come from the earth, fallen, and yet the Lord uses His creation to grow and heal us. He uses mud. 

Mud + Spit. It's gross, especially by our standards of modern medicine, but I can think of nothing more beautiful. (Yes, I think weird, unbeautiful things are beautiful.) The thing about spit is this: it's typically an insult, an image of revulsion or rejection, and yet Jesus uses it to heal, to pause and reverse the natural workings of the world. To bring a person out of isolation, to include this blind man in His kingdom. Mud + Spit. Nothing more natural, more "of the flesh," something so socially undesirable used by the Lord to heal, used to glorify and reveal His character. Brilliant, actually.

This passage makes it seem so simple: anointing and washing and complete, immediate healing. Yet I find, in my life, a struggle to "maintain" healing--constantly falling back into my areas of poor health. My issues are not birth defects, but learned behavior--you can call it generational and you'd be justified in doing so. Generational legacies of divorce, of selfishness, of Jesus-less-ness. Things many families deal with. It is learned behavior, engrained deeply and passed down in years of parenting. God loves me no less but He calls me to healing, a process of unlearning and creating new legacies and it is a struggle to do so. You'd be crazy to go back to the habit of blindlessness once the world of sight had been opened to you. But what about the comfort of self-service? The pattern of avoidance? The habit of abandonment when things get hard? And many, many others. Those are difficult habits to break. Entirely impossible to do it along, despite the allure of self-help book and therapy and the practice of yoga (all good things, but an incomplete form of healing). You'd have to step into an entirely new identity, an entirely new family.

Source: alisonyinblog.com

One of the many things that I love about the Lord is His intentionality. Here, I would have been stuck. It's the longing of my soul for as long as I can remember: Oaks of Righteousness and generational restoration. It's heavy on my mind these days. I think about the ways that I have been gathered into the families around me, welcomed and wrapped up with friends that are second family, and how I feel the tension of that adoption: Will it last? Is it strong enough? Will it define me? Is it only blood that binds us? I think about the ways that my life, a marriage, a welcoming heart could be a mode of this restoration.


It's as if Jesus knew this longing for family and understood the tension of adoption when he says, "You are heirs with Christ in salvation." And more: "You have been grafted in." Grafted in, married in to a family of righteousness, made so by a desire for Him.

In the midst of reflection and anaylsis, comparing and contrasting what I want vs. what I have (and I need to emphasize comparing: in many ways, my actual family is a dream come true). It is easy to hope for simply an earthly family. One that prays genuine prayers before meals, one that seeks transformation by Jesus, one growing in the fruits of the Spirit. It's natural to find that and cling to it for the life that it gives, to want to be grafted into that family, already in existence. To want them at my wedding, standing next to me in support, to be in the waiting room when I give birth and to act as family until the very end; to want spiritual parents and wise + righteous counsel. It's easy to forget that they have been grafted, too. I have not been grafted into them (though they may be the tangible representation of what Christ has done), but we, separate branches, have been grafted into THE Oak of Righteousness, with THE head of the family. We come from the same broken world and God loves us no less for it. From Him, new branches shoot out--a new family and a new identity, that the weight of who God is would be revealed. 

slow down: a reflection

The last few weeks have been a showing of the chaos of life. Crazy work schedules and adjustments in community; travel and a wedding and weekends that feel like paradise; jam-packed days and nights of far too little sleep; not enough time to process and tired emotionality and excuses for all of it. 

In the midst of it, a longing to slow. 

More than a longing. 

A conviction. 

A conviction rooted in another conviction and another conviction beyond even that: 

to add to the healing of the world

to live an intentional life

to create and care and relate meticulously, authentically, intentionally

It was easy in the summer, with no job and endless time for sleeping and journaling. Life picks up speed, though, and if I'm not careful, I find myself adding to the brokenness.

Without intentionality, I find myself overlooking stories and fears and the things that make us human.

I find myself fumbling through my days: thoughtlessly relating, hastily replying, foolishly bypassing the hearts of others.

It's damaging. To me. To my relationships. To my sanity. To my faith.

And yet, I have a thousand excuses for why intentionality is too lofty a dream, some legitimate. I find myself putting off intentionality under the guise of other forms of service: my job working with at-risk youth, my independence, my Meyers-Briggs (ENFP), my church. I claim that I'll get to it later and rush off to my next highest priority.

I am learning the hard way that intentionality is a discipline, and a Jesus-oriented one at that. 

He is never not intentional. His words and His time and His every movement. 

He is meticulous in all He does and encourages me to the same. 

He challenges me to slow my way, to prioritize and invest and protect time for the people and things that matter.

More than that, to taste the sweetness of intentionality and enjoy.

the thing about malawi...

Malawi is beautiful.

The landscape was quieter than expected--everything seemed so still and peaceful. The image that you have of villagers in colorful skirts walking with buckets of water on their heads? It's reality. People walk out of the woodworks, down every street, at all hours of the day and night. The majority of the population are unemployed (86%...yikes!) and spend their days playing soccer, setting up makeshift food stands or simply sitting, enjoying each other's company.

We spent our first day at Flood Malawi, Flood San Diego's sister church. Flood Malawi is alive--it's vibrant and diverse and such an awesome source of fellowship in Lilongwe. I've been so spoiled by Flood San Diego and having people around me who are truly committed to the challenging and abundant life of the gospel. To see other faith communities flourishing too is an encouragement. To hear the story of how Flood Malawi came to be, the investment that our pastor made in significant places--it makes me proud to call Flood my church and excited to be able to partner with Flood Malawi, even if just for a short term trip. Plus, singing songs in Chichewa was awesome!

I was most excited to go into Kudoko Village. After plenty of meetings and preparation days, I needed to meet the people who this conference was for; I needed to know their names and see their smiles (knowing their stories was much more difficult because of the language barrier), to know that this work was meaningful. It should come as no surprise that I was completely taken by the village children. Even with dirt covering their faces and too-big clothes falling off their shoulders, there was so much hope in their eyes. I fumbled through Chichewa phrases attempting to learn about these beautiful kids:

Muli bwanji? Hello, how are you?
Dzina lanu ndani? What is your name?

Most of the time, I ended up repeating what they had asked me. I would smile and wonder why they used so many consonants and envy the way that words rolled off their tongues, while getting jumbled on mine. I quickly turned to the next person to try again; they'd giggle when we tried new sentences or tried to teach them something in English. To Chimwemwe and Victoria, I'd try to communicate how pretty their eyes were. I'd have them repeat after me: "I have pretty eyes. I have pretty eyes. I have pretty eyes." I'm not 100% sure that they understood, but it was still true--their eyes were so kind and full of the hope of the future. Somebody needed to tell them how beautiful they are, no matter how often they heard it! I was glad that even for one day, it could be me. By the end of the day, we resorted to simply making the silliest noises we could--turns out we don't need a universal language, just sound in general.

It was heartbreaking, though, touring the village, seeing the place where the school should be, where the government promised classrooms but then misused the money, leaving the village with just a foundation. Thousands of kids are missing out on an education, the one thing that promises them a future and allows them to dream. The challenge was knowing the reality of the systems surrounding Kudoko Village. There are so many systems in place to keep change from happening. The conference got the community energized around issues of poverty, education and gender violence, but despite the energy, there is a lack of resources that creates real barriers. They want education, but there's still no classrooms and no teachers. Their kids have a right to food, but there is no food to share. Sometimes it is an issue of individuals needing to change themselves; sometimes it is far more complex--systems larger than this community making certain forms of justice an impossibility. The conference was effective in opening the door to justice, but there is still a long way to go, with many tangible needs still yet to be met.

Our team (Americans and Malawians) with the Village Chiefs

This is where our prayers for Kudoko Village become, in some ways, the best thing that we can offer.

There is little that we can do from our American homes, though we are committed to trying. Our team now feels the burdens of this village and is invested in its future. Our trip became sustainable when the Malawian volunteers stepped in. They are now invested in Kudoko and are prepared to go every Friday to help with tutoring and mentoring and encouraging the community to take positive steps toward change. And we are holding onto the truth that God's extension of justice, the wholeness and restoration that He has in mind, reaches even to a village in the warm heart of Africa.

While the conference was in session, small groups of us would sneak out to pray. We'd walk around the village, stopping at fields to pray for agriculture, stopping in front of homes to pray for families--for parents to dream for their kids, for the resources to build up the village, for peace and security in the homes. As we'd walk, kids were curious, surrounding us, holding our hands, sitting on our laps, singing songs in Chichewa. I was in heaven. I scooped the smallest girl onto my lap as we sang "Mwambamo;" she was covered in dust, wearing nothing more than a little blue slip. Her face had sores on it and there was snot running out of her nose. Her belly was distended in hunger. I just sat there with my hand on her stomach, my fingers held so tightly by hers, wanting to weep. Poverty so close to me, literally in my lap, and there is so little that I can do.

Again, prayer was the best thing that I could offer;
I have to trust that God is good--that He has a deep love for this little girl and that He is fighting on her behalf.

That was the reality of village life. So much joy, so much singing, so much vibrancy, so much energy for change, all in the face of so little. I wish I could say that I was horribly surprised by this reality, but I've seen it before. It's never any easier to see, but at least it's easier to process; less paralyzing and more motivating to action. It became my goal, beyond helping with the conference, to affirm their worth, despite what their poverty says. That goal, with only two weeks in the country and a language barrier and a lack of foundational relationship, was a bit difficult to reach, but it was my goal nonetheless. It was probably the most important thing that we could attempt as a team and will be one of the most important things that the Malawian students will continue to do. Affirming their worth, their dignity, their value in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the law, as men, women and children, as leaders and mothers and students with potential and dreams worth fighting for--that will be what brings transformation. That will inspire action and we will be able to see the change that we are hoping for.

So what now?

I'm excited to say that my trip to Malawi was really encouraging in terms of the work that I'll be doing now. Because I've put off my move to Boston (yes, I've put off my move to Boston) and will be staying in San Diego indefinitely, I'm excited to get to work. I'll be working with AmeriCorps at a local junior high, coordinating a mentoring/intervention program for at-risk youth. I'll have about 30 students as my own and will be responsible for a whole host of activities and lessons as part of the program. I'm most excited to build relationships with the kids, to dream with and for them, and to encourage education as the force that will allow them to fulfill those dreams. I start in August and will carry the lessons from Kudoko Village into my classroom and beyond!

And yes, I got my giraffe :)

a dream, a purpose

it's far too easy to pass through days unaware of the potential of 24 hours
or critical of all the things left unachieved:
the i shoulds and i coulds, the giant mountains ahead of us
i should've solved world hunger today
or
i could've built a school to transform a nation today


we are rarely satisfied with what we've done
very rarely (okay, never) do we save the world
but we have big dreams of big change
so we wonder if anything less, even the seeds of change, are enough


we are Christ's image bearers with His breath in our lungs and His resurrection in our bodies
we have endless potential (the developer in me is celebrating!)
and yet, we are not asked to save the world
we are simply asked to live intentionally in that identity: to bear His image
to make His image our purpose
even in the face of coulds and shoulds and lists of things to accomplish
our best efforts--living out His truth in our hearts, our intellect, our strengths and our passions--should be our dream and our purpose



[via]

so here it is, my purpose, uniquely mine
a draft, of course, scribbled into the pages of my journal
it's the woman i want to be, the love that i want to show,
the things that i want my life to be about
it's my dream for myself
a reminder that if i can live each day to this end,
if i can accomplish this,
no more, no less
then i should be satisfied, knowing that greater things will follow

to empty myself in surrender to God's love; to reflect God's love and in it find my strength; to care for people outside of myself; to affirm God's truths over the people around me (and to know His truths for myself); to dream with and for others; to see God's purposes and movement in my own life; to love with God's love; to watch and expect Him to transform people and things; to give generously of every resource; to let myself experience love in transformational ways; to live in the challenge of the gospel; to laugh; to know the fullness of God; to always learn from the lives and stories of others; to be transformed by Jesus

...may it be so*

*Did you know that amen translates to "may it be so?" i love that. it's not just a closing statement, but a genuine request, too. may this dream, this purpose for my life, become a reality. it's my genuine plea.

what is your purpose?

sweet, sweet malawi

i'm going to Africa today
that's an unusual sentence
but it's true
in twelve hours, i will be on a plane headed east, east, east
until i find myself standing in Malawi
on ground that we have waited for
prayed and prepared for



there are a billion things going through my mind right now
please forgive my scatterbrained-ness...
did i pack enough underwear? i hope the person next to me for 31 hours of travel likes cuddling. i hope i don't get typhoid. please don't let me get typhoid. call mom. call dad. eat mexican food. are we ready? i hope we're ready... am i qualified? adequate? justified in going?

i can't help but reflect on the same feelings i have every time i board a plane to jamaica:
i love this place [GOD loves this place]
i love these people [GOD loves these people]

doubt still creeps in, though.
is this trip more than a sign of my privilege?
this kind of travel, this kind of expense--is it frivolous?

there is a still, small whisper telling me "no."
love cannot be frivolous.
not lovey-dovey love.
but love.
love that overwhelms poverty and all of its friends.
love that stands against abuse and neglect and gender discrimination.
love that lifts up the oppressed.
love that affirms the value of every human life.
love that is renewed after the image of its Creator.
love that carries justice with it.
that love is God's very character and no, He is not frivolous.


He is not frivolous in giving out love that empowers even just one beautiful woman who needs to know her worth or love that pushes God's hopes for humanity to reality and redeems our brokenness. i'd raise thousands of dollars for that. i'd stock up on long skirts and malaria pills.
i would travel the world and back again for that kind of love.


somehow, i am a part of this
i am a small part of a small team going to a big place with a big dream
more than anything, it is about His love
His purposes
His dreams
His BIGNESS
and the plans that HE has, that go far beyond our 18 days and our conference and the resources that we can supply

so that is my prayer as i leave for Malawi
that i would be small, and He would be Big


and that i'd see a giraffe...


many, many more thoughts to come
please pray :)

when God made me (a lesson on patience)

when God made me
He shaped the cartilage in my kneecaps
and grew my fingers long enough to span entire octaves
He chose the specks in my eyes from an infinite color palette
He decided that I would prefer wildflowers
and told my hair how to respond to humidity

when He wrote my story
He captured every circumstance
every intention
every gaze
every sentence
every breath

when God made the animals
one by one by one
He perfected the shade of their fur
and the pace of their step
and in the trees
He put His breath and life

He watched it all begin to dance

a million years it could have taken Him
a million years of delicate workmanship
a million years of patience

patience/pay-shence:
the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble or suffering without getting angry or upset

I know so little of patience
less, even, of focusing our patience on Him
my heart is too busy focusing on my delays
my troubles, my suffering
every thing standing in the way of reaching the desires of my heart
even the desires of His heart


I rush them
maneuvering and manipulating
craving instant gratification and immediate answers
I turn away from the journey
I am no gardener, lovingly watching crops grow
I'm hardly an artist, aware of every detail of every project

I know so little of waiting for His timing
trusting in His good and right will
standing there, for as long as it takes
for eternal hopes to become present reality


even still, there is grace in every humbling lesson


[the Lord is wonderfully good to those who wait for Him and seek Him]
--lamentations 3:25

eternity in our hearts

he has made everything beautiful in its time. he has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

ecclesiastes 3:11

i had eternity in my heart before i had any idea what that meant

it was always easy to hope for

in my mind, it was renewal and restoration and the Lord's beautiful and intentional shaping of lives and hearts

in reality, it wasn't always easy to see and much less easy to grasp

sometimes all you get is a glimpse...

in a conversation

or Easter dinner with your family

or a story of tangible hope

[then you wait]

c.s. lewis calls them "stabs of joy" and that never quite left me

(lord knows i love that man...)

"stabs of joy:" the momentary satisfaction of an eternal heart-longing; glimpses into a sacred plan; opportunities to see even just a fleeting image of what should and will be

they're beautiful moments, really

reminding us of His heart and His hopes for us, if only we'd hope in Him

we get glimpses and wait for His perfect timing

(honestly, though? His timing, in our impatience or our hesitation or in light of our own hopes and plans, feels more painful than perfect)

but He has been dreaming from the beginning and letting us in on His vision

if we'd just have the courage to let Him dream it over us

imagine it for us and with us

then, walk in it confidently

{via}

sometimes, my confidence is shaky

yesterday, in a moment of doubt mixed with fear, i turned to my mentor and said:
"but i can't imagine anything better than this"

read: i'm not sure if that there could be anything else in store for me

her response was perfect (per usual) and much more eloquent and insightful than my paraphrased version:

"you don't need to. He is imagining it for you. this place where you are now is just a glimpse of what is to come."

all i have now is a glimpse

but i can expect good things, eternal things

things that satisfy the heart of God

made beautiful in His time

se la tout espwa: there is hope

i was in jamaica when the earthquake hit haiti. we crowded around a tiny tv set to watch the news stories unfold. images appeared and numbers rose; it felt so surreal. jamaica and haiti are almost sisters. histories of colonization, weather patterns, lush green land disrupted by poverty. i felt like i'd been there. like i knew their stories. i could've loved them the same; i could've felt the earth shake, too.

i'm sure i cried.
i'm sure i felt helpless
privileged
paralyzed.
i always do.

until i processed and sorted and stored away that trip, and haiti along with it.
beyond occasional reminders or heart tugs or books on the topic (i recommend following jesus through the eye of the needle and mountains beyond mountains), i'm not sure that haiti was much on my mind during the last fourteen months. it was replaced, i'm sure, with other worthy causes.

it is now april 14 and haiti is back with immediacy.
my church is raising $100,000 for a project with eternal significance, that aligns with God's heart for the widow and the orphan, the poor and the vulnerable. we have three more days.
so here we are, approaching easter, in the midst of haiti fundraiser after haiti fundraiser, in the midst of planning my own. i'm running through hypotheticals and making checklists: tables, signs, soundboards, lights, videos, cupcakes.
i've never done anything like this before.

out of everything, what stands out to me most:
you can learn a lot about the heart of God by planning a concert.

seriously.

try planning a last-minute benefit concert with very-talented-but-relatively-unknown-artists for a crisis that you can never really understand and you'll learn a lesson or two in
prayer
provision
thankfulness
empathy
community
dependence
purpose.


if you're lucky, you'll see His bigger story being told.
i guess i got lucky...





se la tout espwa pou Ayiti: there is hope for haiti
se la tout espwa pou imanite: there is hope for humanity

we are a part of it. we are hands and feet to His work of redemption and restoration
He is using His gifts in us and His passions in us
He is using our small voices to sing the song of His love for Haiti

we are joining in His resurrection story
Haiti, Branches, Nicole Vaughn, Claire de Lune, missiongathering, Flood, Children of the Nations, friends and strangers:
we are joining in His resurrection story, singing His resurrection song

in that, se la tout espwa: there is hope

*If you're available, we'd love for you to join!

celebrate good times (come on!!)

march has been a big month

a strange and beautiful month
if i could describe it in one word, i would choose
full
{full: filled to satisfaction}
(thankfully, nobody asked me to describe it in one word and, since it's my blog, i will use as many words as necessary...)





it has been about feasting and discerning and pra(y)sing
in the midst of it:
i've been to concerts and conferences and birthday parties
i've had overwhelming nights and looming decisions
changes of heart and changes back again
moments of utter creativity
laughter and tears
anticipation
joy


march is the halfway point
between october and august
the start and the finish of life as i know it
how dramatic does that sound?
but seriously. that is crazy
five months ago i entered a post-college world outside of my predictions
and bigger, even, than my hopes
i've watched community built up and walls broken down and anxieties pushed aside
for the sake of something bigger


and now, there is something bigger still
the culmination of years of planning and studying and working and dreaming
came in six little words:
"congratulations, you have been accepted into..."

in march, doors opened
...more than doors...
[entire cities, entire worlds]
and in rushed a billion emotions:

excitement, gratitude, pride (quickly followed by humility), humility (quickly followed by pride), fear, more excitement, disbelief, confusion, surprise, sadness, pieces of early-onset grief, euphoria, anxiety, hope, awe, curiosity, happiness...

and somehow, at the end of it, after all of it
there is peace and satisfaction
and it's time to celebrate



{via}

hold it lightly

mantra [man-tras]

-noun

1. a holy word in meditation

2. an often repeated expression or idea

synonyms: song, hymn, tune

-------------------------------------------------------------------
i currently have a mantra--a simple phrase that has come to hold much meaning;
something that the Lord continues to whisper into my busy ears and anxious heart during the chaos of the last few weeks, and surely, the weeks to come:


{hold it lightly in your hands}

let it roll off like dust at the slightest breeze
or
let it rest peacefully where it lands

let it come or let it go

it=many, many things, big and little
because apparently, i'm at the age where the necessity of making important life decisions comes far too frequently
and the feeling of the want to grasp onto anything with potential is ever-present [hello, developer...]

somewhere in the back of my mind, always, is Jamaica, and now, Africa...acceptance letters to graduate programs, road trips to Boston, relationships and community and the home that He has built so intentionally around me

potential moves and forward motion

even still, He whispers: [hold it lightly in your hands]

be malleable according to His heart

He, the God of hold and release:
takes desires and gives opportunity
takes opportunity and gives courage
takes courage and gives paths-worth-walking

He gives dreams and visions and hopes and plans
that He asks me to hold lightly,
to trust that He will fulfill.

why my shirt said "love"

"If you love those who love you, what benefit is that to you? For even sinners do that...but love your enemies, and do good, expecting nothing in return..."

(Luke 6:32ish)

i wore my "love" shirt yesterday, specifically and intentionally. because i woke up frustrated. i woke up thinking about this verse, thinking about my heart, and remembering the ease of love in jamaica. it is easy to love in jamaica, and i fall quickly into it. it is not so easy here. here is where real life happens. here is where the longevity of my love is tested--where i see if i am truly patient and kind; if i truly turn my heart against envy and pride and any sort of selfishness [hint: i'm not and i don't, but i'm working on it]. and this is the place where i see and overthink and analyze and attempt to discern the "love" around me.

i wore my "love" shirt yesterday, specifically and intentionally. the one with the flowers and the dove and the word "love" spelled out, front and center, to hold myself to some sort of higher standard. because i have decided to be about love. i have decided to be about Jesus, who embodies all that love is: patience, kindness, goodness, humility, selflessness, gentleness, forgiveness, grace, meekness, reconciliation, and on and on and on. i have a different standard to live by. and so does anybody who claims to be about Jesus. we are not called to get there apart from Him, but we are called to a new and different standard:

one that asks that i open myself to a world besides my own. it asks that i engage in conversation, that i listen, that i respond selflessly, patiently, with humility and kindness
(and for more than ten days in jamaica)
(and for more than two weeks in africa)
(and for more than the twenty minute difficult phone conversation each month)
(or the visit to difficult family members).

it's a life lived toward a new standard, worked out in day-to-day life, when friends annoy you, or conversations wound you, when you want to scream and cry and punch somebody in the face, but you choose to love instead.

i wore my "love" shirt, specifically and intentionally, because i'm not quite there and i just needed a little reminder.

{in love, there is freedom}

"We must move away from asking God to take care of the things that are breaking our hearts to praying about the things that are breaking God's heart."

- Margaret Gibb

why i write (how i pray)

i don't quite remember when i started to write for my soul. probably somewhere around the time that i started to seriously consider Jesus. sometime after my "dear diary" notes about my ultra-crush on justin jones. after my winnie the pooh phase. sometime before now. i have evidence of this stacked high in an old oak trunk in my bedroom in northern california. pages and pages are added with every visit home. by now, there must be thousands.

i could never quite figure out why i love to write. my introverted side uses it as a tool to process before my extroverted side explodes the words from my mouth. my input side likes to collect phrases and stories. my crazy-brain loves it for the focus and attention it requires. my heart loves it for the clarity it provides. more than those things, though, i write (and love to write) because it is the purest and most creative worship that i can bring.

i've never been great at traditional prayer, or at least my perception of it. i can't sit still long enough, i twiddle my fingers too much and, with nothing grounding me to my thoughts, they come and go within seconds. i thought that was the only way to pray.

enter: writing. writing is my creative and prayerful worship. from scribbled notes on unlined paper and doodled truths, to letters written on a vintage typewriter--i meet with YHWH on those pages. give me the chance to put pen to paper and suddenly, stillness of heart and mind, openness to the Lord. the pages of my journal are full of Divine-human interaction (isn't that at the heart of prayer??). you can read my heart's transformation from cover-to-cover. you can see praise and hope and longing and the ongoing process of change.

i write my dreams--the dreams placed intentionally in my heart by the Lord. i write my hopes. i write my struggles. i document the way that the Lord speaks into these things, changes them and uses them by showing me Himself. david danced before the Lord; that was prayer. he wrote psalms that we pray, even to this day. i write because of the Lord, with the Lord, for the Lord; that is my prayer. certainly not the only form, but the one i love most.

how do you love to pray?

"You are called into prayer either that you might collaborate with Him in bringing His will to pass, or that you might be able to get a larger vision of what He is like."

--John White//Daring to Draw Near