note to self

It's okay to tell your hairstylist that you don't want bangs. 

Don’t feel bad. Don’t question her opinion of your bang-less existence. Don’t worry if the world finds you hip enough. The truth is: you’re not that hip. Plus you hate bangs. Hate them.

You try to make them work but every single time you’ve ever had them, you regret it. You pull at them to grow and scream in frustration when even six bobbypins won’t do the trick. You cry and beg God to make your bangs grow back faster. You look at Pinterest for hours, trying to find a solution.

You’re not really a “bangs” kind of girl. You’re more of a “throw your hair up in a ponytail and run” kind of girl. A “jump into the ocean and not worry about wet hair sticking to your forehead” kind of girl. A “get this mess out of my face, I don’t have time for this” kind of girl.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to let your hair be about you and you alone. To let yourself be who you want to be; to not be swayed by any external voices.

It will feel weird--assertive and maybe even harsh--to claim exactly what it is that you want. You might feel guilty and mean, demanding and boring, maybe even unfeminine. But you don’t want bangs, damnit, and that’s okay.

It’s okay to say “no” to the things you don’t want and “yes” to the things you do. 

There is freedom in it and you are ready to be free. 

the art of loving

My New Best Friend (also known as the woman who is professionally trained and paid to listen and sort through my emotional junk every Wednesday evening) has assigned me some homework in the form of literature. It's my favorite type: part head, part heart. She's limiting me to one chapter a week (the worst kind of torture), but so far, my response to this book is: yes. My New Best Friend assigned it for a reason and I intend to get as much out of it as is physically possible for me in this time. I intend to learn, to grow and to share. Maybe you can glean some wisdom, too.

From The Art of Loving, by Erich Fromm:

"Love is an art, just as living is an art; if we want to learn how to love we must proceed in the same way we have to proceed if we want to learn any other art, say music, painting, carpentry, or the art of medicine or engineering.

What are the necessary steps in learning any art?

The process of learning an art can be divided conveniently into two parts: one, the mastery of the theory; the other, the mastery of the practice. If I want to learn the art of medicine, I must first know the facts about the human body, and about various diseases. When I have all this theoretical knowledge, I am by no means competent in the art of medicine. I shall become a master in this art only after a great deal of practice, until eventually the results of my theoretical knowledge and the results of my practice are blended into one-my intuition, the essence of the mastery of any art. But aside from learning the theory and practice, there is a third factor necessary to becoming a master in any art--the mastery of the art must be a matter of ultimate concern; there must be nothing else in the world more important than the art. This holds true for music, for medicine, for carpentry--and for love. And maybe, here lies the answer to the question of why people in our culture try so rarely to learn this art, in spite of their obvious failures: in spite of the deep-seated craving for love, almost everything else is considered to be more important than love: success, prestige, money, power--almost all our energy is used for the learning of how to achieve these aims, and almost none to learn the art of loving."

whole.

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

via

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter: wholeness versus healing.

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

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

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

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

via

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

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

I am not healed, but I am whole.

semantics (work + justice + change)

There is nothing predictable about the job that I do. Every single day, a new story is graciously revealed to me so that I can begin the slow work of piecing together all that encompasses the body before me. It is an honor because I love these kids, so stinkin' much. Every day, I see the scars left by a tragic childhood and I see, in some, resilience and hope rising. I see moments of success, effort and struggle, and for some, defeat. Some days are more difficult than others--some stories follow me home. There are lessons in them, teachable moments, every experience a metaphor or an arrow to some greater reality. In everything, joy and sorrow stand in opposition.

Some weeks are more unpredictable than others. On a very unique (and hopefully rare) Monday, the news waiting in my inbox was this: a potentially gang-related homicide in the neighborhood, the very same block, that my students live. They heard the gun shots and saw the blood on the pavement. He, the 17 year old victim, was their friend--their homie. Whatever they discover about the potential gang ties in this case, he was the kid that sold ice cream on the block, a valuable member of their community, a friend and brother to many. My students came to school with burdened hearts, the weight more than they were ever meant to carry. There are not enough words to do the devastation justice and, not ironically, justice is what is needed.

It is not the first time we've broached the topic of justice. It always comes up when we talk about truth in some capacity--true strength, true peace, right responses to suffering felt. Justice, mercy, retaliation, revenge, remorse, forgiveness, anger. The words are all wrapped up together. Justice is what we want, even when our experiences have warped its meaning. I know it as well as anybody. Our human nature says "grace for me, justice for them" and we respond accordingly. We are blind to our own errors, our own hatred, the hardness in our own hearts, but we see the faults of others with crystal-like clarity. Unforgiveness builds itself a home in our hearts, devastating what is left of our common humanity. Unforgiveness--anti-grace and its fruits (acts of violence, relational aggression, resentment, angry hearts)--is risky for all of us, but the material risk is elevated and the pull much greater in low-income, gang neighborhoods where the rules of the street trump all and where retaliation is to be expected.

These are the days that I bring home with me. These are the days that leave me frustrated, heartbroken, sometimes hopeless. It's a battle that cannot be fought with words (reason rarely works) and should not be fought with violence (violence begets violence). How do we change? How do we come to know what justice is, how grace works, and the power of forgiveness? How does a heart soften enough to be transformed? How do gang neighborhoods become places of peace? What of my own heart--can it be a place of peace?

If only we'd all been taught grace from the beginning and each of us was fueled by humility and reconciliation. If only we had the eyes to see cycles of violence for the messengers of suffering and devastation that they are. If only we'd all been taught that cycles don't end unless you have the strength and integrity to step outside of it and write your own story. If only we'd learned that justice does not mean one-for-one and strength is not equivalent to the hardness showing across your face, but in your capacity to understand, to grieve, to walk away and change.

I think about this concept often: the difficulty of "change"--it tempts us and draws us in, offering us hope of a life or a character or a story that we don't have. But it can be so illusive. A favorite voice of mine, Father Greg Boyle, lends comfort in this slow work:

"There is nothing 'once and for all' in any decision to change. Each day brings a new embarking. It's always a recalibration and a reassessing of attitude and the old, tired ways of proceeding, which are hard to shake for any of us." 

Every opportunity to move in the direction of change (and there are infinitely many, especially in my classroom, especially with Jesus) is countered by a pull back into our old selves--our previous failures, our destructive habits. Into the families we were born into and the ways of thinking that have guided us this far. Not just gang kids. All of us. For some, an innate distrust of the people around us. For others, the allure of following a few hardened men into retaliation. Instead of grace, a skewed version of justice, meted out inconsistently and, ironically, unjustly.

It's all just semantics until you decide for yourself. Justice. Grace. Truth. Forgiveness. Resilience. Reconciliation. Just words until you decide that you want them defined and active in your own life, part of your own story. The decision brings with it hard work--we are promised that. Forgiveness is always harder than hardening your heart or painting hardness across your face. Grace is always harder than anger. Humility is always harder than pride. But it's the way to stop cycles of violence and undo the work of tragic childhoods. It's the way of justice and peace, and it's what we need for our hearts to survive.

mud + spit + oaks of righteousness

Have you seen the way that I journal? 

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

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

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

generational sin

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

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

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

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

Source: alisonyinblog.com

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


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

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

slow down: a reflection

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

In the midst of it, a longing to slow. 

More than a longing. 

A conviction. 

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

to add to the healing of the world

to live an intentional life

to create and care and relate meticulously, authentically, intentionally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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] 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.

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 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

when God made me (a lesson on patience)

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

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

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

He watched it all begin to dance

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

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

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


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

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


even still, there is grace in every humbling lesson


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

summer reading, starting NOW!

after a week like this one, i am ready for saturday
saturday, i'm hoping, will be a peak into my summer days
sunny skies and a blanket in the sun
and a start to my summer reading list

my ever-growing list begins now:

1. The Pursuit of God//A.W. Tozer
2. Tree of Codes//Jonathan Safran Foer
3. The Cost of Discipleship//Dietrich Bonhoeffer
4. Tattoos On The Heart//Father Greg Boyle
5. Water for Elephants//Sara Gruen
6. From Harvey River//Lorna Goodison
7. The Book of Night Women//Marlon James
8. The Other Side of Paradise//Staceyann Chin
9. I Am An Emotional Creature//Eve Ensler
10. If I Could Write This in Fire//Michelle Cliff
11. The Time History of Paradise//Margaret Cezair-Thompson
...

[via]

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."

--CS Lewis

se la tout espwa: there is hope

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

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

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

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

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

seriously.

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


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





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

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

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

in that, se la tout espwa: there is hope

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

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. :)

get out of the way

it feels like an eternity since i last wrote anything

my world has inadvertently become about packing boxes and decorating shelves and trips to the doggie doctor

so i haven't had much time to write the hopes of my heart (they are many this time of year) and the observations of time spent people-learning (the sociologist in me)

have you danced recently?

i have

little known fact: every tuesday i strap on practice shoes and learn to dance the tango

tango is all rhythm and invitation

it's a wonderful thing to be a woman on the dance floor

yielding to the volcada or the pasada

trusting your partner and following the movement

as it leads you across crowded floors and between far-more-technical couples

risking stepped-on-toes and dizzy heads for the chance to gancho or boleo

when done correctly,

it is perfect equality and unexplainable beauty

but only if you yield

yield or get out of the way

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

this i know for certain:

there is a big picture that we squint to see

it's far away; we can hardly hear the rhythm of its rumbling

it is coming

while we are trying to understand, trying to save ourselves, to be our own shalom

and too often running from the call to live in meekness

(meek: desiring and submitting to the will of God)

we stand in our own way

in our hearts we harbor fear and insecurity and a quest for comfort that fuels selfishness

our desires first

our wants, our needs, our opinions

we cannot, will not, do not yield

even to His perfect intentions

His perfect movement

His perfect invitation.

But there is a dance

and an invitation to join

to yield to Him, to live outside of ourselves

we are members of one another

called to seek unity and ask for justice

to live a life worthy of the calling we have received

despite the sacrifices it requires:

our discomfort, our worldly insignificance

our open-handedness

and sometimes, we just need to get out of the way so that He can move.

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

in other news: it's raining and Clive is sleeping with his head on my calf. this couldn't be more perfect unless i had pancakes in front of me :)