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. 

the way i see it, #76

Sometimes, Starbucks is good for more than caffeine.

room for hope

"Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments — but all of this is transitory it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.”          --Paulo Coelho

There are a few things that I've learned from my job thus far:

1. Carpool naps make me a better person.
2. Every student needs to be celebrated.
3. The depth of a person's story, especially their heartache, will make me cry every time.
4. There is almost nothing more necessary than hope. 

hope (noun)

a feeling of desire for something and confidence in the possibility of its fulfillment 

disappoint (verb)

to fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of

 I went into this job knowing my tendency to over-invest, to take too much responsibility and to feel the burden of other's circumstances.  In an attempt to protect myself from the emotional weight of 50 hours of this each week, I told myself to hold loosely to hope, to not put too much hope in one particular student, to not let one good day get my hopes up for lasting transformation. Still believe,  always believe, but possibly from a distance.

hope --> expectation --> disappointment

hope --> expectation --> transformation

Disappointment and transformation are bound together, with hope at their center. Without it, neither can occur. If I seal myself off from hope in an effort to protect myself from the sting of disappointment, I am working my way fearfully through my days, afraid of the power of hope, afraid to be wrapped up in it with my 30 students, carrying their stories, hoping for them when they cannot hope for themselves. Without it, and without the potential for disappointment, I am not doing my job.

The potential for disappointment is always there. It always will be. At the end of any day, I've likely experienced it. In the sweet kid who visited D3 at every break and ate lunch with me and talked about his desire for change but ended up with a suspension by 8th period. In the girl who shared her heart with me then manipulated me minutes later. In the smart boy who refused to do his math homework. In the kids who seemed genuinely excited about progress, yet find themselves in the principal's office for something so preventable.

They say that adolescents have a limited perspective on time and responsibility. They don't see cause and effect, they don't see the end of the road. Their brains are still developing; their mindsets are short-sighted, unaware of the potential of the future. I suppose that's my job. To help them see; to help them change their own minds, to see beyond the routine of junior high and neighborhood activity and to hope for something more.

My only words for them are, over and over again, "Baby steps. I want something better for you. I believe in something better for you. We will get there." And I say it to myself, too, because despite long and hard days, despite tears of sadness and frustration, this is my job. This is my work and my ministry.  Until June by contract, and beyond. Because tangled up in hope and expectation and disappointment and possibly transformation, is love. And that's what I have for them. And it's in the disappointments I feel it most, when a new day comes and there is infinitely more room for hope.

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.

dreams and futures and things like new jobs

To date, I have been in 16 hours of training for this new job that I keep talking about. We have 56 more hours until my supervisors consider me trained enough to work with thirty at-risk youth at a local (ish) junior high. We are learning about a long list of things that put them at-risk: neighborhood gang presence and peripheral involvement, bullying and the rise of the commercialized sexual exploitation of children; poverty and single-parent households, lack of support, the education system on a macro level. On and on and on. We are learning to fill up our schedules with the stories of thirty kids who might not pass their classes, that might not make friends, that might become truants, or maybe they have a dysfunctional family; maybe they have nobody to help them with their homework, to make sure they are eating well, to tell them that they are loved and valued and that their dreams matter. Thirty kids that might not have dreams at all.

You might not know--dreams are my thing. I can't imagine a better thing for me, for my heart and my strengths, than to help somebody to dream big things, God things, redemptive and new things, for their lives. I could not be more excited to set up my classroom and spend an entire school year turning ideas into reality, showing kids their value, loving them, helping them see their potential. (This is tricky--I don't really ascribe to the If you can dream it, you can do it idea, but I do believe, unwaveringly, in the power of a dream and the necessity of commitment and work and so much of yourself invested to make it "come true." More on this later.)

And yet, I'm hesitant. I know that the next 10 months promise to be difficult: Working with junior highers. (I remember junior high. I remember myself in junior high. It was awful.) Mentoring 30 kids. Meeting the goals of the program: a decrease in truancy by 100%, a marked improvement in all core subjects, finding service projects that they will invest themselves in. Doing enough. Sleeping enough. Budgeting and commuting and surviving traffic on the 5. Maintaining my life and relationships and sanity outside of this job.

Today, in the midst of reflecting on the struggles that are sure to come, the lives of at-risk youth, the disappointment and failure and shame that is wrapped up in poverty, the difficulty of adolescence, I am thankful for a story that inspires hope. Today I am particularly inspired by a little story about a boy called Lula:

Lula was a skinny kid, who looked straight out of the Third World, undernourished, filthy. He was standing by himself, and no one seemed to include him or pay him much attention...'My name is Luis, but everybody calls me Lula,' he said. I remember this a week later, when I pull up to an intersection and see him entering the crosswalk alone, his walk clumsy and self-conscious. I roll down my window and catch his attention.
'Hey, Lula.'

You would have thought that I had electrocuted him. His whole body spasms with delight to be known, to be called, to hear his name uttered out loud. For his entire trip through the crosswalk, Lula kept turning back and looking at me, smiling.

Lula didn't do well in school...When Lula first started to come to the office, shortly after I met him, he'd make a beeline to my office and just sit there. He was not much of a conversationalist. One day, when Lula passed by all the other desks and staff members to get to my office, several called him back. 'Hey, where do you think you're going?' They proceeded to explain to Lula the whole 'what are we, chopped liver?' concept, that it was rude to walk past folks without greeting them. They suggested he try it again. Lula goes to the front door, exuberant at the mere idea that folks would actually want to be greeted by him. He walks in again and in a singsongy, lilting voice, nearly approximating Gregorian Chant say, 'HELLLOOOO, EVERYYYYBOOODDY!' He would enter our office for the next five years with this exact same greeting. Lula came from a huge family, and he was attention deficient, except in our office. Everyone lavished Lula with care he didn't get otherwise.

Ten-year old Lula walks into my office one day and stands in the doorway. I wave him in. He hands me [his report card] and stands by my side, resting his elbow on my shoulder. His glee cannot be contained. I glance across the piece of paper in front of me and locate the subjects. F, F, F, F, F, F. All Fs and nothing but damn Fs. I think, Why's he so excited to show me this thing? I am frantically perusing every inch of this report card to find something, anything, for which to praise Lula. I find it.

Absences: 0. 

'Lula, nice goin', mijo, you didn't miss a day (I'm thinking, a lot a good it did ya)--you didn't miss a day."

[Father Gregory Boyle//Tattoos on the Heart]

I can't help but wonder, and maybe secretly hope, that I have a Lula on my caseload.  If interactions with my students will parallel this story. Not all of them, I'm sure, but one or two. Maybe even ten or fifteen, fingers crossed. But, I'd be happy with one. One for the hard days, to remind me of the importance of simply loving somebody. Knowing them, calling their name, lavishing them with care, celebrating their accomplishments, big or small and encouraging them on. 

A guest speaker, a former gang member, encouraged our team on Friday. I'm holding onto it, right there with Lula, as I begin this new journey. 

Make this your passion, your calling, your ministry. Nothing could be more important.

 

...and I think I just found the first quote for my classroom :)

 

roots, indefinitely

Today was the day that I was supposed to move to Boston. Boston had it's own category in my Google Calendar and I'd been planning on it for months:

August 30: Fly to Boston

August 31: Move in Day

September 1-5: Orientation

September 6: Classes begin

[Essentially: August 30, a new life begins]

It feels a bit strange to be approaching this day with an entirely new set of plans, and stranger still to feel so much contentment and joy in all of it. I expected a stronger desire to grieve the loss of this graduate school dream--a new city and open doors and every opportunity under the sun. I expected to feel suffocated by a closed door, fearful of my inability to freely pack up and change my life. But there is a strange freedom that comes from committing to put down roots. 

 

I grew up between two different homes, switching weekly, packing bags and visiting parents and whatnot. I guess I grew accustomed to movement. I thought it defined me. There may be some truth in that: I am an explorer, I am curious, I crave adventure. If I'm being honest, there is an element of escapism trapped in there. Constant movement means I never have to do the hard work of long-term relationships, vulnerability, depth, despite my desire for that type of connectedness. Of course, all of this is relative. I've been in San Diego for almost six years now and there is so much depth to my existence here. But something changes when you decide to make a place home. 

There is no threat of moving boxes or looming goodbyes. There is no need to self-protect, only the freedom to grow deeply here. To put roots into the earth (or, even better, the San Diego sand)--to nurture and learn and invest in difficult but beautiful things. And that is what this summer has been for me. An invitation to put down roots.  To make this my real life: not just college, not just my transition years, but my reality. There's a lot wrapped up in this new(ish) life.

It started with a little form required by the DMV. Change of permanent address. For the first time in my life, "permanent address" does not mean the place where my mom or my dad live. Home is San Diego, and the State of California knows it. For the first time in my life, everything is in one place. All of my clothes, all of my books, everything that makes my space mine. No more split time or doubles of everything. [This is a joy unique to a kid who had shared custody...and it's a beautiful, beautiful thing and I am celebrating.] I can hardly believe it: I am settling, in the best possible way. 

Beyond that, there are a billion little plans to make this place my home, and I am genuinely happy about all of them. Painted walls. Fire pits. The sharing of spare keys. Theodyssey. A new job. Hopes for intentional relationships that are edifying and encouraging and prayerful. Women Mondays. And on and on and on.  

Have you heard that common phrase, "I will go wherever the wind carries me." It sounds ever-so romantic, and once upon a time, my idealism would've clung to it. For now, though, the wind has calmed and roots are growing deep--indefinitely.  

[junior high diary] candy grams and valentine's day

"Monday, February 14, 2000: Happy Valentine's Day! I had the most fun in the snow. I had a snowboard lesson but I didn't like it and I think the teacher taught me the wrong thing. After lunch I rented skis and had a good time. I hope I get candy grams from other people than my friends (like maybe Justin.) I don't think he will though because I think he likes Heather. I don't like Heather. Once in my year book I said she was one of my best friends. YEAH RIGHT. She's to popular for me. I'm going to go waterskiing this weekend. It's going to be freezing. But I can't wait. For Valentine's Day my mom got me this bathing suit and I remembered that Kathleen had the same one (just bigger) and it made me sad. I miss her so much, I even started crying. I can't wait to see her. It will be so much fun. And I still need to give her her Christmas present. I miss her so much.

I only got 1 candy gram. It was from Nicole Frey. I was so disappointed because I wanted to get 1 from Justin. He is so cute! When I got to the Growing Room, Chris told me she got a candy gram from Gianni (who she likes, and he likes her) that said, "I like you." Isn't that so cute? I think it is. But ther they're only 5th graders. I mean, shouldn't I have a boyfriend before them? But I'm happy for them"

In February of 2000, I was eleven years old (actually, eleven and a half, which I'm sure I made a point to explain to anybody willing to listen...They needed an explanation as to why I was so much more mature than the average eleven year old). I'm not quite sure what the "healthy" age for crush/relationship development is, but I know that that desire was alive and well in me by 2000. Eleven years of marketing and Disney fairy tales had instilled within me an awareness of the importance of Valentine's Day, as well as a few unrealistic expectations. Sure, Justin Jones wasn't my friend, but that could all be a hoax--a complex and dramatic scheme to surprise me with an abundance of Candy Grams come 5th period. He would surprise me with his sensitivity and thoughtfulness, we would fall in love and live happily ever after. (This might explain why I don't like surprises: they only lead to disappointment. Thanks, Justin. Thanks a lot.)

Of course, there was Heather Miller. She'll reappear in many journal entries over the next year. She was the popular girl at school, way more popular than I could ever dream of being. Plus, she was blonde when being blonde decided everything. Let's be honest about that yearbook situation: wishful thinking. Maybe I thought that I could will it to be true, if I wrote it in pen. There's really no way of knowing that thought process, but Heather was never my best friend. In fact, she was the enemy of my love life, the biggest obstacle in my path to true love with JJ. More on that later.

Turns out I only got one sad and lonely Candy Gram. I should've been grateful, but I was eleven and insecure and banking on Candy Grams as the only way to find love in my life. Plus, you might remember Nicole Frey from a previous journal entry; she's the same friend who I worked on science fair projects with. Sure, she was actually a great and loving friend, but not the ideal person to spend Valentine's Day with when you're hoping for Justin Jones (hey, did I mention that he's cute? Oh ya. Ya, I did. EVERY TIME I WROTE HIS NAME).

Then there's he Growing Room. The Growing Room was the daycare that I went to until I was twelve. Yes, twelve years old. Far too old for daycare, older than any other student in the history of the center, older even than their rules technically allowed. I blamed a lot of my relational problems on this place and it was one of my main insecurities. It'll reappear many more times.

Chris and Gianni went to The Growing Room too, but of course, that was acceptable because they were still 5th graders. Fifth graders are so young and stupid about the workings of love--what do they know about Candy Grams? Me, the sixth grader, knew so much more. I deserved one. I deserved love. Unhealthy sense of entitlement much? I would've been happier for them if I hadn't been so insanely jealous. I must've acknowledged that later, when I added in a new pen color: But I'm happy for them. Just in case somebody accessed my journal, they needed to know that I was still nice enough to be excited for new love.

Relationally frustrated, "nice," shallow and surprisingly insecure. That about sums up Junior High for me.

The Growing Room (A Preview of the Next Entry): "I think 1 of the reasons Justin doesn't like me is because I go to the Growing Room and Heather doesn't. I can tell so much that he totally flirts with Heather."

"All the lives we could live, all the people we will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is what the world is..."

Aleksandar Hemon//The Lazarus Project 

[junior high diary] important updates

**address and phone numbers blocked out for safety reasons

"Kathleen moved. Her new address is 2140 Kingsbridge Way. Her phone # is 805-38x-xxxx and her pager is 805-38x-xxxx. I miss her so much! I can't wait until tomorrow! I am so excited about snowboarding. Justin Jones is so cute! and smart and nice. I love frozen waffles! They are so good. Today I got Winnie the Pooh Valentines and glued 2 chocolate <3s 2 each 1. It's so cute! (& tasty)."

For the sake of those anxiously awaiting this blog (Joe...), I will comment only on the necessities.

1. Kathleen was my best friend. Lest you think that I wrote her entire address, phone number and pager (A pager?! Why she had a pager, I have no idea...) simply for my own records, let me give you some insight into me. Twelve-year-old Kara had this weird obsession with people knowing how smart she was, even if it was simply my ability to memorize my best friend's contact information. 
2. Kathleen moved to Southern California right before sixth grade. I was devastated. I lost my best friend, my walk-to-school buddy, and the only person who didn't mock my frozen waffle habit. I missed her so much that I even underlined it in a different color and kept my ADD at bay for a whole 6 lines!
3. Of course, the rest of this entry is dedicated to very important updates. Yes, I loved frozen waffles. Not just Eggos that we heated up, but literally, frozen waffles. I'd take them straight from the freezer and eat 2 or 3 while watching my daily dose of Boy Meets World. I stand by twelve-year-old me's assessment: they are so good. 
4. Lastly, Winnie the Pooh Valentines. Further evidence of my Winnie the Pooh Problem, which will resurface regularly over the next two years. So cute. So tasty. 

[junior high diary] why justin jones is great

**Disclaimer: 

Dear Justin Jones, If you are reading this, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I hope you are flattered, not scared. Really, this was 11.5 years ago. Please know that I've moved on. Or have I? Love always, Kara

"I still like Justin, he's so cute!!!! He's also very smart. He got on Gold Honor Roll, just like me. I have an open book test in Social Studies tomorrow. I didn't study. I also have a science test on Wednesday. I hope I do good. Yesterday I went to Nicoles house and worked on a science project. In art I am drawing a puppy. He is so cute! On Saturday, I am going snowboarding for the first time! I'm so excited! I hope I don't hurt myself or fall (to many times). I skipped my piano lesson today because I hadn't practiced at all. Justin Jones is so cute!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hate the group corn (I know thats not how you spell it) and I love Blink 182. I want the C.D.!"

My junior high diary epitomized life as an 11 year old girl and affirmed every stereotype you can think of. Nearly every single entry follows an easy-to-use format.

1.  Begin with important updates: Don't worry, world: Justin is still cute.
2. Clarify to avoid confusion; add self-affirmations if necessary: I'm not only interested in his good looks. He's smart. As smart as me, and we all know how smart I am. Things could definitely work with him. Plus, the presence of Mr. Popular on the Gold Honor Roll lends credibility to my 4.0 GPA.
3. Discuss highlights (and concerns) of next few days: My brother always told me that I had book smarts, not street smarts. It was important for me to maintain this reputation. If I was going to stay on the Gold Honor Roll, I needed to excel in everything, from Social Studies to Science (twice), to art. Somehow, snowboarding got thrown in, too. And piano lessons.
4. Use incorrect grammar, change pens frequently, practice penmanship: Forget apostrophes or the proper uses of "good" and well." English wasn't my thing. I was a science girl (yes, I competed annually in the science fair. See below.) Handwriting didn't much matter, either (though, I must admit, I thought mine was the best.) Pen changes indicate an editing process. Typically, I would read my wise words at a later date and realize that my writing was incomplete, which, conveniently, allowed me to give myself grace.
• Ex: I had an open book test in Social Studies. The addition of "I didn't study" indicates that I probably didn't "do good," but it's okay, because I've given myself an excuse. 
5. Follow up on important points. Use exclamation points for emphasis: "Justin Jones is so cute!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" It was worth noting again.
6.  Disclose dorky information about self: This entire journal entry speaks for itself.
7. Leave the audience with something thought provoking. Make a statement: If there was one thing that I hated in junior high, it was the band Korn. Mostly they scared me. I protested their music in the only way I knew how: misspelling their name (a powerful and effective tool). But, to end on a good note, I loved Blink 182. The evidence? My first screen name: wtpoohntiggertoo182 (Yes, Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too, 182).
8. Use pencil as a protective measure: I had this habit of writing about the boys I liked in pencil. Just in case somebody gained entry into my house, found my journal in its hiding space and broke open the lock, I needed to be ready, at any moment, to erase the evidence of my crushes. Despite being completely illogical, pencil gave me that security.

In summary:

Number of Exclamations Used: 31

Number of Exclamations Used in Reference to Justin Jones: 28

Science Fair, 2000. 

Important Updates (A Preview of the Next Entry): "Justin Jones is so cute! and smart and nice. I love frozen waffles! They are so good."

snails (my experience with running)

Let me start by saying this:

I AM NOT A RUNNER.

Far from it, in fact. Ask anybody, really. I used to laugh (scoff, even) when people would ask me to join them on a run. Me? Run? I'll pass. And that's the way it's always been. You can imagine my surprise when I found myself, with no external pressure or prompting, clicking "submit" on the registration form for a HALF-MARATHON. Yes, that's 13.1 miles. Of running.

There are moments when I realize just how amazing the human body is. How resilient, how strong. My legs were designed for movement; my heart was designed for rhythmic beating, even-paced and purposeful.  When my anxiety began, everything was out of whack. My heart beat was inconsistent, beating too fast, too hard--shaking my entire body, even in the stillness of my seat.

I was given a piece of advice: run. 

Run for your mental endurance. Run for endorphins. Run to get out of your head. 

Run to remind your body of its purpose.

Your body should not respond so aggressively to irrational fears. 

That physical response, that elevated heart rate, that shortness of breathe, that intense exhaustion:

it should only come from feet on pavement, from movement, from pushing your physical body to its physical limits. 

So run.

It's taken me too long to understand the beauty of a healthy body, working as it was intended.  My body hardly feels resilient or strong. But I know it is working. My crooked knees still ache, my feet overextend. I'm slow and I'm always thirsty. I complain too much and have a billion excuses as to why I couldn't run 7.2 miles today. But my body is responding to its physical purpose. My heart knows why it beats so hard, my muscles know the meaning of movement. 

So I run. At a snail's pace, I run. 

And my body and soul thank me for it. 

Even as a snail, I'm going to kick that half-marathon's butt.

[junior high diary] elliott brown and frankenstein

This is the first entry of the new section of my blog "Kara Goes to Junior High." It documents my junior high years with actual pages from my junior high diary. Welcome and enjoy.

"A lot has happened. I stopped liking Elliott Brown because he looks like frankinstein. I liked Sean McFaul but My Friend Brooke Kirby fell for him at they've been acting like there going to get married, so now I like Elliott again.

I passed fourth grade. I'm going in to 5th. I hope I Get Mrs. Harrison. she seems nice. there are only 48 more days untill my birthday. I even made a chain. "

This is how I start the update on my life. Ridiculous. Somehow, not surprising at all.
I don't quite know where to begin. My priorities? My handwriting? The fluid movement of my thoughts? My embarrassing grasp (or lack thereof) of the English language? Spelling? Capitalization? Granted, I knew enough to pass the fourth grade. We should definitely celebrate that great feat. And I was learning all sorts of heart-lessons. Lessons on popularity and love, the theme of almost every entry of this journal.

Sean McFaul was pretty popular. He was kind of a bad boy. The quintessential would-be party guy. You'll soon find out that I was not. Thankfully, fourth grade was before the popularity hierarchy was fully established and before I realized just how dorky I was. Unfortunately, I'd already started dreaming about my prince charming. He wore Stussi t-shirts and had bleach blond tips. Elliott Brown didn't quite make the cut. (Or did he? When things don't work out with Mr. Popular, I guess the average 10 year old girl is more than okay with settling for Frankenstein? Yes, these are my first ideas about the dating world. I started with unhealthy ideas to deconstruct. Lucky me.) Elliott Brown was the first in a long line of crushes and unrequited love. You'll soon see--there will be much more on that later.

Personally, my favorite part is the birthday chain. Apparently there aren't too many differences between 1998-Kara and 2011-Kara: thirteen years later, I still love birthdays. Convenient because there are only 3 more days untill my birthday. No chain necessary.




Why Justin Jones is So Great (A Preview of the Next Entry): "I skipped my piano lesson today because I hadn't practiced at all. Justin Jones is so cute!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

anam cara, my soul friend

I told myself that tonight was reserved for one episode of Arrested Development, writing one little letter, and sleeping early to get myself back to being rested and happy. But then I got to thinkin' about souls and friends and this crazy little concept of anam cara, a soul friend.

"In the Celtic tradition, there is a beautiful understanding of love and friendship...the old Gaelic term for this is anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend: "soul friend." With the anam cara you could share your inner-most self, your mind and your heart. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging, a joining in an ancient and eternal way with the "friend of your soul." In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of social acquaintance fall away, you can be as you really are. The anam cara is God's gift."

Anam Cara, A Book of Celtic Wisdom//John O'Donohue

[Before continuing, I feel the need to share my joy that cara is pronounced Kara, which, yes, is my name. How sweet is that??]

The theory says that everybody has an anam cara, but not everybody knows it. My thought is that, regardless of haves or have nots, everybody needs a friend to their soul.

We throw around the term soulmate too easily--this is more than that. It's more, even, than a best friend. This is more than a list of things in common or shared music taste and it goes far beyond girl talk. This is a person who knows you at the deepest levels, who challenges you, disagrees with you, forces you to see a new and better perspective. She can debate you in politics or talk theology for hours. She can predict what you'll say, how you'll respond and she knows the meaning behind every facial expression. She knows the challenges you face, your moments of selfishness, your short-sightedness. She knows the fears that keep you from action, the things that keep you from loving freely. She can sense your anxiety and she can speak truth into it, only because she is trusted with your story. And she knows more stories than most: she knows the responsibility of holding your joys and your heartaches. She prays with you and for you; there is a humility, a deep gratitude and a mutuality to this relationship.
You attempt the same for her.

And there is so much laughter. So many moments that would be embarrassing if there was a fly on the wall. So much quirkiness, so much ridiculousness. So many sleepovers. This friend, this anam cara, is a treasure.

I am so lucky to have found mine.





I'm reminded on nights like tonight...
after detailed accounts of our days and descriptions of every person and place
after encouraging text messages and calming phone conversations
after reminiscing through pictures and talking in circles about the fears in my heart
after sharing wisdom and reflecting on the parallels of our lives
after cursing the 1,615 miles between San Diego and Omaha
...what a gift it is to have a soul friend.

A soul friend and an internet connection. I'm forever grateful.

*I'm no expert on this whole soul friend thing, but I'm reserving the right to add one more soul friend into my life at some point. Not just anybody--he'll have to come with a ring and some pretty serious vows. I'll choose wisely.

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 :)

a roadtrip, an escape

There is something so perfectly American (and yes, perfectly symbolic and cliche) about a summer road trip with my iPod on shuffle through 372 country songs. Summer was made for country music. The open road is in front of me (metaphorically speaking: in reality, we're driving through Los Angeles traffic, which is actually the opposite of "open road.") I somehow feel content with my sudden lack of plans, with uncharted territory.

A road trip seems made for escaping. For itching-to-go-adventure. For packing up and leaving it all behind. It's romantic and dramatic and exactly my plan: a new city, a fresh start, with only a dream to live by.

But this road trip is different. This road trip is my goodbye to that dream, a coming-home road trip, a drive that will let me settle fully into this place, where I already have roots. Where I already have hopes and people and all things life-giving. And it just might feel new, too. That other dream was a child's and it was fueled by impatience, like only a child's would be. And many, many other things. (Ask me about it some time, I'd live to share.)



So this road trip is an escape, yes, but of a different kind. An escape into something, if that's possible. And that something is beautiful and promising, if that's possible. That something looks a little like the open road: no street signs and no way to know exactly where I'm going. But here I am, ready for the journey.


"...right now I'm right where I wanna be...
Never felt so loved, so peaceful and so free...
There ain't no doubt that God's been good to me"

God's Been Good To Me//Keith Urban

happy birthday, mama!

I could tell you a billion things about my mama, and I'll start with a few:

She makes the best egg salad in town. My love of pancakes comes straight from her kitchen, and she made them perfectly golden and perfectly fluffy, every time. I'm hoping for her frame when I'm her age. She can do anything a guy can do, maybe better. Her house is immaculate and her constant request that I make my bed finally paid off.

The Friday song was our thing and it still brings me joy.

"Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite day.
Monday is a bummer, Tuesday's only fair.
Wednesday's getting better, Thursday's almost there.
But Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite daaaaayyyyy."

She woke me up with it every Friday morning, and I wouldn't get out of bed until we had perfectly harmonized (but what does an 11 year old know about perfect harmonies??...I'm sure it sounded awful) that last "day." Then I could wake up and start my day, and maybe even let her French braid my hair and crimp the bottoms.


She had this beautiful blue dress that I always asked her to wear. On Mother's Day, on her birthday, on my birthday, to my graduation. It was beautiful and she was beautiful in it. If she still had it, I'd ask her to wear it today.

But many things have changed between now and then.
I will say, in all honesty, that more than a billion wonderful memories, my favorite thing about my mama is who she is today. I've learned lessons in the last five years that were lost in translation when I lived down the hall. Now, she teaches me across state lines, on our Saturday morning phone calls or in forwarded emails, and through plenty of heartache. Lessons about generosity and love like only a mama can give. And it is a beautiful thing, a gift, to follow in her legacy of grace, to see what happens when a woman's heart is touched by God and a life is transformed. It was a beautiful thing to watch her bring our family back together and get the story she dreamed of.



Now, she is the consistent advocate for my heart and I could appreciate nothing more than the unwavering support that she gives, the confidence that she has in me and the love that she shows as we talk through life decisions and tell little stories and remember the past. She chooses encouragement over criticism, forgiveness over frustration, grace and generosity and adventure, over and over and over again.


Saturday morning, she's the first person I call and I hope it stays that way forever.

Happy Birthday Mama!
I love you!

I love my mother as the trees love water and sunshine -
she helps me grow, prosper, and reach great heights.

--Terri Guillemets