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. 

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

happy birthday, daddy!

**My dad's birthday is on Thursday, but I'm impatient and wanted to post this today! Why not celebrate all week, right?! Happy Birthday Daddy!**

Everybody thinks that their dad is the best. The strongest, the smartest, the most capable of beating up some other dad. As a bratty 10-year old, I remember saying things like, "Ya, well...my dad will sue your dad!" He joked about “strongly-worded letters” to anybody who messed with his kiddo girl. That’s what he calls me, even to this day. I guess for a dad, your daughter never really grows up. I moved out, pay my own bills, make my own decisions (mostly) and yet, I’m still his little girl.

It's true, though, that my dad is the best. He's frustratingly intelligent. He knows something about everything. When your dad is Michael J. Kimball, Esq., you learn to articulate and argue well out of necessity. And you still can't out-argue him. But in the meantime, you learn a lot: about the power of words and the importance of knowledge, among many other things. It was my daddy that taught me most of what I know. In Junior High, he'd attempt to explain chemical reactions and concepts of economics to me, things like depreciation and elasticity. Then he'd build a bookshelf or teach me to change the tires on my car, check the air pressure, drive a manual or even tow a boat. When I brag about being able to do those things, I'm actually bragging about my dad, the most versatile person I know, who lovingly took the time to teach and equip me for all kinds of life situations and anything involving an engine.

So yes, I'll brag about my dad. It is his birthday, after all. Sure, he can be embarrassing at times. Maybe a little too protective in line for the ski lift, kind of a crazy driver. We don't see eye-to-eye on everything, and I've come to grips with his humanity; but still, he's my dad and he's the best man I've ever known.

He used to read to me, every night before bed. Silly books like “Feelings” and “Firehorse.” (My book choice alone proves how much he loves me...) He is personally responsible for my “just one more chapter before I go to sleep” habit.

He handled a crazy teenage daughter and crazier teenage son like no other single dad I’ve met. He’d laugh when I dramatically stomped up the stairs and slammed the door, but he’d apologize if he knew that he had hurt me. He’d rub my back when I cried, take me to Target when I needed a new turtleneck, watch North Shore with us for the 142nd time. He never stopped telling us how much he loved us. I never doubted it for a second.

After my brother moved out, it was just the two of us. Every night we would have dinner together: Cafe Tandoor or Taco Bell (he is personally responsible for my Taco Bell obsession). We’d discuss politics and faith and eventually, I started trusting him with boys. He became privy to stories and dreams and jokes about paying for my wedding (which he still doesn’t find all that funny...). When I moved to San Diego, he became my best friend. I told everybody stories about how cool my dad is and made them watch the slideshow I made for his 50th birthday. I reverted back to elementary school: “my dad is better than your dad.” My dad can fly. My dad can read an entire book in one day. He can fix any computer problem and can count backwards from 100 by 3.

He set the standard high. By loving my brother and I the way that he does, he’s set the standard high.

They say you’ll end up with someone like your dad. I probably won’t marry a conservative and I wouldn’t be surprised if my husband doesn’t know how to construct a cheese cave.

But you can hold me to this:

He will be strong and fearless

he will love unconditionally

he will read to me before bed and rub my back when I cry

he will encourage me to follow my dreams

he will remind me to see the big picture

he will make difficult decisions for the sake of his family

he will shamelessly listen to tacky music (Really, dad?! Liz Phair?!)

he will make me proud to bear his last name.

Happy Birthday to the Best Daddy There Ever Was!

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}

a legacy of grace

it's not very often that i get to sit down and study my bible. reading is one thing. i'm talking three different versions of text, books of commentary, my beloved "dictionary of biblical imagery" (thank you, intervarsity press...) study. it helps that it's gloomy and rainy outside and that i'm sharing the table with my studying roomie. i love these moments, this space, this togetherness. it is far too infrequent and more beautiful than i remember.

i have a lot of reasons to love Jesus and a lot of reasons to be convinced of His goodness.

here's one:

i love to read stories of the example of beautiful, strong, holy women who have come before me: to see the tenderness in their worship, the risks that they take in their adoration of Jesus, their bravery and strength and the grace that covers their lives. i'm thinking of the woman with the alabaster jar (luke 7), the widow offering her livelihood in the temple (mark 12), Ruth, Naomi, Rachel, Sarah; even Rahab, a prostitute and Mary Magdalene, the woman from whom seven demons came out. (common misconception: mary magdalene was not a prostitute and the Church finally apologized for turning her into one...) then, i think, even more immediate: my grandma, my mama, my mentors, my (almost) sisters, my best friends...

we were once broken. we were once prostitutes and adulterers, divorcees and abusers. addicts. skeptics. possessed. selfish perfectionists. our hearts were cold. we were poor and afraid. that was the story we entered into--our legacy and our destiny.

and then, Jesus said, over and over again, "your faith has set you free. go in peace." in front of us is a new legacy. pieces of our hearts (our very feminine and sometimes feminist hearts) come to life as we are no longer prostitutes or adulterers, divorcees or abusers. we're no longer addicts; our hearts are whole and free and rich in love. that is the power of Jesus' grace in abundance and the legacy of strength and grace that we are living in: beautiful, strong and holy women teaching us to live.

p.s. i think this goes without saying, but just in case: men live in Jesus' abundant grace, too. but i'm a woman, and that's the way it goes! :)

love, jamaica

let me start with this:

jamaica was great.

it was everything that i needed it to be: life-giving, joyful, relational, challenging, exhausting, beautiful, no less profound than trips one, two and three.

i have countless stories that i'd love to share, if you'd be willing to ask for them. they'll be accompanied by a billion photos, plenty of babbling and probably a few (happy/homesick) tears. i would tell you about our patchwork mural with my favorite kids in the entire world or early morning conversations on the veranda, slowly picking up phrases of patois, being welcomed into my Jamaican family. then i'd probably tell you about an unavoidable tension between the realities that i find myself in. i'd have to give you a brief history of jamaica and the lessons i've learned over the last two years. i'd probably direct you to previous blogs, one two and three. if you're interested in that, let's chat.

but for now, there are other things on my mind. less tangible experiences. instead: the slow beginnings of my transformation.

it never ceases to amaze me how quickly my heart jumps to love in jamaica. as if every fear never existed and the sting of goodbyes would be dulled. it's not--it never is. leaving always makes my heart ache, the kind of aching that lasts for days and weeks and comes up again months later. i miss it. i miss it because i love it, with the kind of love that my heart has never felt before.

contrary to the usual--i love in jamaica without fear, with abandon. i let the love come in.

(it's the kind of thing that would be much better explained in person, over food, while i blab my heart out. but i've noticed it in myself, had it affirmed in me, and know it to be true.

jamaica (place, people, experiences) has shown me that my heart is capable of deep and freeing love.)

so, my post-jamaica goal: carry that willingness and fearlessness with me across the caribbean sea and 2, 568 miles of land and into my right-here, right-now life. remember that perfect love drives out all fear. start all over again with my congolese refuge family and my biological family and my longford court family; with new friends and new career goals and new crushes and any other place that i can learn to love more freely. invest my heart freely, deeply and purposefully. here we go.

for those of you wanting more, pictures and stories will come soon(ish), promise promise :)

some pre-departure thoughts

Half-packed bags are laying around my room, full of the grungy t-shirts that I can't wait to wear, and endless receipts, binders and important documents (staffing a trip can be a bit stressful!) and I have so many thoughts as I prepare for my fourth trip to Jamaica in the last eighteen months.

Of course--OF COURSE--I'm excited. Counting down the hours (22.7), even. But also, I'm a little hesitant. A little unsure of what to expect this time around, a little uncomfortable (as always), a little of everything.

When I'm in Jamaica, I see Jesus. I see Him in the joy of the neighborhood children dancing and laughing; He fills the mamas mouths with wisdom and grace. And I see Him looking for shelter or asking for food as He walks among the poor. I see Him in the struggle to be freed of a "brickyard in Egypt" type of bondage. That is the beauty of our God embodied.

And I see change. I see the benefit of ten Americans who come to share in the journey. I remember seeing life spring up from nothing and I reflect on the lessons I've learned--I see how my heart and my worldview and my life itself have changed--by sharing in the journey, yes. But by sharing so many other things, too. Sharing of my material belongings, my finances, my comfort, my community, my love...

And yet, I always struggle with Jamaica. Is relationship development and dancing to Michael Jackson songs with 25 Jamaican kids enough? On some levels, yes. It is perfect. But I find myself wanting more out of it. I find myself hoping to see more with each visit--more than a nice visit with friends who have become family, more than the distribution of much-needed technology to the special education students who have, without question, changed my life. Those are good things, but I'm believing for more.

I want to acknowledge that what I'm working for--what I'm hoping and praying and dreaming for--is more than connection or the concept of "change." I'm closing my eyes and holding my breath and wishing for transformation. For my heart, for my family, my community, my workplace and of course, OF COURSE, Jamaica. (It's a natural extension of my heart by this point...)

And not transformed into a Caribbean America. That won't do. There is so much we can take away from unpaved and bumpy roads, cold showers and houses packed full of people. There is something to be said for that sometimes-inconvenient-simplicity that we work so hard to avoid in our everyday American lives. (I can't lie: I'm excited to escape the pressure of American technology and fashion and the need to be showered and done up at all times. I'm looking forward to far fewer showers and outfits and pigtails 24/7, and feeling beautiful just the same.)

What I would like to see is redemption--and not just in a Bob Marley song (though I have to admit, I've listened to it on repeat). I'd like to see the wounds of colonialism and imperialism stop bleeding for long enough to heal. I'd like to see a switch in religious ideology--from the "religion of my oppressors" to the love of a God who gives abundant life and removes the yoke of slavery. I would like to see justification, reconciliation, all of the other -ations that the Lord blesses us with so freely. I want to see the perfect love of God transform us, renew us, save us from the workings of a world bent on destruction.

Tomorrow I board a plane to fly a flight that feels so familiar. I'll get in Taxa's van to drive the familiar road to Logwood Walk. I'll carry my bags up familiar stairs and run to give Sanka a hug. I'll sit on a couch that became my place for naps in a home that became my home too. I'll walk to the school and sit with the special education students. I'll hope they remember my name because I could never forget them. I'll visit churches and break bread and enjoy the gift and the challenge that Jamaica has been to me. I will have my eyes open wide to the work of His hands as He continually seeps into my heart and brings the transformation that I long for in our broken world.

Updates to come. Prayers and encouragements always appreciated. :)

blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

(note: this post will be a bit of a downer...read on if you'd like)

"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings." --Anais Nim

----------------

I grew up at 3024 Cabrillo Avenue, then 221 Oakham Court. My walls were painted pink and purple and I played make believe on the hammock outside my window. We had birthday parties and scavenger hunts and sleepovers and things were simply beautiful. It was before I noticed skeletons creep in to steal life, before insatiable addictions took their grip, before my eyes watched a human life shatter and crumble and dissolve.

There was brokenness, then separateness.

Then attempts at reconciliation.

I called long distance to offer a paradoxical love--it was the absolute most that my heart could give to a good but painfully broken man who (despite divorce and death) will always be family, but it was never never enough. It was stabs of joy, moments of hope, maybe, but I am only human. He was only human, too. It pained me to listen to lonely words, to hear bitter resentment on his lips and to understand the fear of death in his voice. His body slipped slowly beyond restoration, one organ at a time and I held desperately to the hope that there is no such thing as a body too broken for healing.

I can't imagine that it was the life he dreamed for himself. There were years of relational conflict, hospital visits and operations and a loosening grip on health, community and love, and then that was it. I made a choice: That is not the life that I choose to remember of him. I am choosing to remember double-butt man and dancing in the living room; that stupid ugly work van that picked me up from daycare, endless M&Ms; getting my toes cracked before bed, and a hundred other things worth remembering. I am choosing to forget the rest.

There simply wasn't enough love or compassion or grace to hold him here. But blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven; and oh, what a beautiful Kingdom it is--where there is enough love and compassion and grace to satisfy a tired soul for all of eternity, and it is where he rests. I'm absolutely sure of it.

day 5: speaking english

blog challenge, day five: speaking english

i think i've always taken for granted the fact that i can hold a pencil and recite the ABCs backwards and forwards (abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz-zyxwvutsrqponmlkjihgfedcba). i've taken for granted that i know what sound a j makes (jaa-jaa-jump-jingle-jack) and that i can easily tell the difference between a k and an x and that my mom read to me every night before bed; that my dad knew the biggest words and how to spell them (e-q-u-a-n-i-m-i-t-y and l-u-m-i-n-e-s-c-e-n-t) and that i didn't have to learn a new language before understanding my own.

and that is precisely why i'm so incredibly excited to introduce my person/people/conversation from the day. i would love for you to meet my second (or third or fourth or fifth--who's counting at this point??) family. they are Congolese refugees, living in san diego, and i have the pleasure of tutoring them in english. (okay, let's not kid ourselves: it's not always pleasurable...it's usually slow and sometimes frustrating and often feels insignificant...except when Sofia recites every letter of the alphabet and spells her name and learns six new words then giggles at her accomplishment...then it's a pleasure again).

this week, sofia announced that she wanted to learn to read, and three of her kids circled around as we tried her very first words: family, mother, wife, sister, daughter. twenty-six abstract letters that she just could not memorize suddenly became real--she is a mother and a wife and a sister and a daughter. so we cheered and giggled and took three-steps-forward.

bahati asked about the world. countries and continents and what is the equator? he opened his "first encyclopedia" and stared in amazement at a page titled "earth." i had never been more thankful for mr. hinke's fourth grade science class, where i learned about the earth's core and sediment and tectonic plates. and oh my goodness, i wanted bahati to know, too.

we meet again on thursday for tutoring and giggling and dinner.

they really are becoming family. and if they're my family, you should probably know them too :)

Dottee Lee

“The best way to learn to be a lady is to see how other ladies do it.”

--Mae West

in 54 years,

if i have any share of her strength, her compassion, her adventure, her beauty,

i will be content.

happy 76th birthday, gram

...I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-R-in-love-with-you!

on Christmas and a home that has come to life

There is something wonderful about family. There is something wonderful about the people that you share blood, experience, genes, home videos, and all that other stuff with. I’m sitting next to Gram on the couch. She’s resting, and I’m using every opportunity to cuddle. The room is being quietly lit with the bursts of color on the tree, Christmas music is playing lightly in the background, and the house is full of life, it seems for the first time. The smell of sugar cookies is lingering and I get up for “just one more cookie” a few times an hour, while my mom and grandpa laugh and work on Christmas dinner together. My brother lit a huge fire in the fireplace, while I set the dinner table—our respective “pride and joys.” Christmas.

Christmas is different this year. I keep stealing glances at the tree, standing tall, and beautifully decorated with decades worth of ornaments, poinsettia leaves and pine cones tucked inside as well. It’s just pretty. There are eight people, and lots of love, in the house today, double what I’m used to. Stories are being told, and mostly, there is laughter and ease. We’re taking pictures just to make sure that this isn’t a dream. It is a dream.

Christmas is different this year. Family is different this year. I sat in church today, the Christmas Eve Candlelight Service, and stifled my teary eyes as I sat, mom on my right and dad on my left, singing “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him.” Yes, let’s. I’m twenty years old, and this is the first time in my life that I sat next to my mom and my dad during a church service, and it feels doubly appropriate that this message happened to be about Jesus bringing light into the darkest areas. So yes, let us adore him.

I love my family, and I love the holidays, but to put the two together has never been easy. Or, I guess, it has never been “whole.” Family holidays, to me, has always meant halves, or portions, split time, awkward negotiations, tension. Divorce tends to do that. They laughed when I talked of spending holidays together. It’s crazy, Kara—I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept it. We all love you, but there is too much history, too many complications. No doubt, there is history and complications and it’s messy. But for seventeen years, I have longed for togetherness and I truly truly believed in the very deepest part of me that it was not only possible, but that maybe, just maybe, God wanted to do a miracle.

Today, I was sandwiched between two people who, for years, have spoken to each other only out of necessity, about alimony and child support and health insurance for the kids, two people between whom there was so much hurt and unforgiveness that really, reconciliation seemed, understandably so, impossible. So when the worship team sang “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him” this afternoon, I acknowledged that the God to whom I sing is capable of the impossible. Let me tell you about reconciliation, let me tell you about redemption.

Tonight, eight of us will sit around the table and pray over the meal, thanking God for His gift of Jesus, thanking God that we can all be together. I will try to hold back tears so as not to make anybody, mostly my brother, uncomfortable. They won’t see it, but in my heart, I will be singing to my Jesus because this holiday season, He has given me the one lasting desire of my heart. Christmas is about giving Him praise, and worshiping my Savior who came as a baby, and even still, His grace is astounding. We’ll squeeze onto two couches and open gifts, fewer than last year because we’ve certainly all learned a bit about money, and a bit about Christmas. We’ll all be proud of the dinner that grandpa made, and the crafty gifts that my brother welded for each person; Mom and Gram will whisper “grown up woman” things back and forth to each other, mom and dad will joke about Christmases long since forgotten, things that happened prior to my memory; grandpa will take pictures, and Tyler will sit with his wonderful girlfriend, whom he really adores. Gerald will fall asleep half way through, and hopefully dad will like his remote control airplane. Even if he doesn’t, Tyler and I will be acting like four year olds, giddily shaking boxes and ripping off wrapping paper as if the very meaning of life (or something...) is inside. Tonight, eight lives that were once separated by bitterness and fear and all things dark will weave together and bring restoration and love and peace and joy. Talk about Christmas.

All season long, we talk and talk and talk about how Jesus is the light of the world, lighting up the darkest areas, bringing light into our desperate and dampened lives. My family has become His playground. Today, I celebrate Jesus in a way that I have never celebrated. Today, I celebrate my God who conquers the impossible and explodes my family into life, together.

you got growin' up to do

My new favorite thing to do is watch the look on my friends' faces as their phones ring and light up, saying "Incoming Call: Home." In junior high and even high school, that was a dreaded phone call, a sure sign of conflict, of missed curfews, of expressed anger over uncleaned rooms or unhad family dinners.

Now, that phone call brings the opposite reaction. My favorite, most treasured calls are with my parents, either of them, both of them. After a long, trying day, I love to hear a familiar, encouraging voice, full of wisdom and always, always, always, love. After a great day, I love to tell them my stories, my dreams, my newest plan; I love to bounce ideas off of them; I love to talk to them like I would talk to a friend, because that's what my parents are. We've crossed that line between parent and friend, and for the most part, we're staying there.

I don't know exactly when it happened that I send more text messages to my parents than anyone else, even my best friends. I'm not really sure when I figured out that staying home at night to hang out with my parents could be more fun than going out with my friends. I'm not quite sure when I stopped talking to my friends about my latest crush, and instead, told my mom. I don't know when it changed from me barely making my 12:00 curfew to me being home at 10:45, just because...

I can't figure out how it happened, it just sort of did. And I don't think it's just me...believe me, I've noticed it in my friends, too, at school and at home. I've noticed how my friends look forward to conversations with their parents, to being picked up at the airport by their parents; I've noticed that I'm not the only one with a text message inbox full of messages from "Mom" and "Dad;" I've noticed the love and appreciation with which guys address their moms, the same love and respect that girls give their dads. I've noticed that even on some perfectly good hang out nights, sometimes, we'd rather be with our parents. I've noticed that it's now hard to discern whether people are talking to their parents on the phone, or their best friend.

I think being apart, going away to school, made me realize how great my parents are, how much I love and appreciate them, and how much they must love and care for me, especially for putting up with all of my crap, my emotional days, my constantly changing plans, my inability to make decisions, my days of multiple phone calls, my days of no phone calls at all. The thing is, I'm growing up, and I don't need the authority figure as much as I need the supportive wisdom of a friend....and that's what I'm getting, and I'm loving it.

So, thanks, parents. I mean, I'll probably text, call, email you, or all three, before you read this, but I'm glad you're my parents, and now I can say, I'm glad you're my friend.