Pressing on toward what lies ahead

Okay..yes, this is my cliche "end of the year" post..but there's something to be said for reflection, revision, and refocusing goals. There are so many rhythms in life and taking time to recharge and plan are pivotal parts of it.
   Now, many of my highlights of this year can be found here, but since that only goes up til my 25th Birthday in August..I'll add more here. This year was full. 365 days of joy, sadness, fear, worry, and hope. Oh, so much hope not only because of realized dreams and milestones, but also because of the milestones and even in the midst of loss. 2012 marked the goodbye of so many people who touched my life, and I'm not naive that 2013 will bring some of the same..that's what life is about--ebb and flow, birth and death. If anything, the deaths of many I knew helped me to take time to think about the reality of death and the temporary time we each have on earth. I want to look ahead and live each day knowing it could be my last. I dont want to go into a detailed account of the year..but here are some photo highlights that sum up 2012

January                                                                     

 
February- art show

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Safari

The sweet kids in kibera

 

October time with the Family

Cousin's wedding in Mississippi

 

 Overall it has been an amazingly blessed year. I press on toward 2013- a year of new beginnings, goals, dreams, and milestones.

Treasures of Darkness 27 December 2012

                Today is significant. Not simply in light of “every day matters”, but because it is a personal marker. December 27, 2007 was the day my acknowledged journey with hearing loss began. A scared twenty year old feebly attempting to find security and identity while fighting the tail of a tornado that unforeseen disability brings. Thankfully, I didn’t stay a terrified twenty year old—in five years I’ve grown into an acceptance and hope-choosing 25 year old. There are so many treasures in the darkness of disability.

                I have had time for my eyes to adjust to the room I was thrust into—and it’s not as scary as it used to be. The things I used to blindly bump up against, flinch, and scream at—hearing aids, audiology tests, captions, and loud rooms of muddled sounds—well, they’ve stuck around enough to become familiar friends. Just like flaws in furniture or imperfect architecture. I acknowledge them with a stubborn smile and a nod of triumph. Similarly, my eyes can now see that the room filled with dark obstacles and seemingly broken dreams, was actually full of treasure. Oh, its taken time and work; and I know there’s so much more to be uncovered, dusted off, cleansed—but I can now approach those unknowns with confidence. As I began to move in this dark room, I discovered that it was really about growth, not a shattering of dreams but I refining of them.

                Thankfully and blessedly I have the same amount of hearing as I did five years ago—but even more importantly—I’ve grown. I have learned so much as I’ve unpacked the room of disability—that asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. I found my voice in this darkness, and it’s enabled me to speak for the voiceless and to share joy and pain. I hope I’ve become more compassionate and accepting—knowing that with our various abilities we all want to be loved, to experience and give joy, to be celebrated.

                To close, these five years in the room of disability have been so full of treasure in the darkness. I give thanks for them today and look forward to the next five years. There is so much more to be found—I don’t want to miss it.

Isaiah 45:3—I will give you treasures of darkness, that you may know it is I who call you by name.

A Lot Can Change in 5 Years

              5 years ago today I was in a very different place. I had 5 semesters of college ahead of me, was living in Canada, had blonde hair, and felt like I had “my whole life ahead of me”. Most impactful, however, was that 5 years ago today, my world was forever changed—an appointment at a ENT confirmed my parents suspicions and slapped the denial out of my head—in the muffled sound I had grown accustomed to, I was told I had genetic bilateral hearing loss.

                Five years ago today I was scared, lonely, blurry-eyed, and terrified of the life ahead of me. I was terrified of becoming a burden, an invalid, a pitied member of society. I blubbered my way through a blood test where the friendly technician attempted to ease my apparent fear of needles when really I was just trying to grasp the reality of the last half hour.

                Five years ago today—I sat on Alki beach with my Bible, journal, and a pen in hand. I made a choice. I made a choice to have hope in loss, to choose life. I chose to continue to walk and to see this as an opportunity, not a sentence. Through the tears I wrote a prayer—a prayer for hope, for clarity, for security, and a plea for healing.  I didn’t want to have hearing loss, to have to get hearing aids, to have my life rocked when it seemed like things were falling into place. No, I liked my normal life and the plans I had, thank you very much, so if we could just rewind and get back to that, that would be great, thanks God. I finally closed my journal, stared out at the Puget Sound that reminded me of my nature, my size, the lack of control I have, I stood up, and began to walk quite feebly into a future I didn’t want but I knew I had to embrace—whatever that was supposed to look like.

                Boy, what a difference 5 years can make!

                Today, I am back in Seattle, I graduated university, I am planning on a Master’s program next fall, I have brown hair and bangs, and I just had my world changed again—by living in Kenya for 3 months. Today I know that I do have “my whole life ahead of me” and its not as scary as I thought it would be 5 years ago. I know that my hearing loss doesn’t define me, it shapes me. It has shaped me into a person who is more humble, compassionate, and understanding—asking for help is a hard fight—and this is all by God’s grace.

                Today I sit at home, still with my journal, Bible, and pen. Today I still choose to have hope in this loss, and I am thankful for the clarity that the past 5 years have brought in, and hopefully through me. Today I am thankful for my aids, and so thankful that I haven’t been healed yet—because I know it is still teaching me. Today I have a new normal, and good plans, and I’m so thankful for the future God chose for me—one that includes hearing loss.

                Today, I celebrate, rather than despair. I celebrate where I’ve been and where I’m going. I know that the next five years will continue to be ones of change, more events that rock my world, but I can look forward in hope as I look back and remember. 5 years makes a difference—and that’s a really blessed thing.

Lessons from a Pair of Gold Shoes- December 25, 2008

This is a post from about 4 years ago. I think it's close enough to Christmas to repost it. 

This Christmas has been different: snowy, out of order traditions (we still haven't opened our stockings!), and a whole lot of giving.
                For the first time since I can remember my parents and I chose to give more than we recieved and as a result, have had the best Christmas ever. Today we spent Christmas with a family we just met whose faith and exemplary trust in Christ emulated Abraham. They moved thousands of miles to Seattle and changed their way of life because they felt the call of God.
              Throughout the last few weeks, since we met this family, my parents and I have come together in prayer and faith in countless ways asking God how he wanted to use us to demonstrate his love to them as well as our community. It resulted in a ton of elbow grease around our house as well as braving the weather and malls with more joy then I've experienced since my last service oriented trip.
               Today we were able to see the fruits of our labor and God's work on our hearts by having the family over for lunch and dinner. In addition to to the "planned gifts" God open so many doors for us to give of ourselves. For example, I have way more clothes than I wear or need and for the last couple of days I'd been asking for an oportunity to give them to the two girls who are 8 and 13. After a fun round of "Apples to Apples" the youngest had a drink spill on her shirt and I was able to "see the window" to ask if she wanted to wear one of mine. She readily agreed and asked "so, when I leave where should I put it?" To which I was able to reply "well, actually, you can keep it. And, you can try some of these other ones if you'd like..." A closet riffling later resulted in two garbage bags full of clothes I no longer need being hauled out of my room by two very excited girls...even my hemmed pants fit!!
               But what really stood out to me from the clothes, was a pair of gold chuck taylors I impulse bought at walmart about a year ago. As the family walked out, with the oldest wearing the shoes; not only was reminded of a portion of one of my favorite quotes, "God is in the recycling business..." but also overwhelmed by the truth that God really is in control and has plans for our life. My "impulse buy" turned into a blessing and a very tangible reminder of how I really can trust Jesus' plan for my life.
               What caused the differences this Christmas? The sermons on giving I heard on several occasions? The weather? A change in outlook? Being thankful? The fact that my hearing loss has taught me the hard way that nothing really is ours and that only God really is in control and caused me to be more grateful for what I have? Regardless, Christmas 2008 will forever be etched in my memory as the one where I truly learned that its more blessed to give than recieve.

Since Its the End of the World as we know it...

                I’ve been really blessed this week—even in the midst of sadness, grief, and in the joy of holiday preparations.  One thing, especially today that has stuck out—is the need to choose contentment. Daily, hourly, it is a fight for joy. A conscious effort to choose to see the glass as half full; to have hope for a future I cannot see or control. I have to opt to be optimistic. Not in a careless or heedless way, but an optimism rooted in the reality of an omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent Pappa Daddy who wills and works.

                  Dreams may be unfulfilled today, innocent lives may be lost, I may still have waves of grief…moments where all I want is to book a flight back to Nairobi or at the very least have a deep conversation with someone who understand the beautiful brokenness of Kibera.

 But in those moments, I have a choice…I can choose to let the not given spoil the given (paraphrased Jim Elliot), or I can choose to remind myself of the hope I have. The same hope that fulfilled the dream of Kenya is still working, providing, and preparing the way for my next steps. I don’t want to be so rooted in the future that I overlook the blessings of today. Blessings such as sitting next to a writer with a past similar to mine, running into old classmates, and meeting new friends, or the laughter and smile of the precious boy I work with…to name a few.

                There has been a ton of hoopla (and hooray for an opportunity to include a word that is fun to type and say) about the “end of the world”…and it’s been an interesting juxtaposition (an equally fun word) to the outpouring of “26 acts of kindness” in memory of the lives lost last week…we should live each day with that perspective—that it could be our last, that we should seek to do the “golden rule” along with helping our fellow man. So tonight, potentially the last night, I want to live rooted in joy and hope, not because I know what tomorrow will bring, but because I know that the Heavenly Daddy who brought me this far will bring me safely home.

 

Hope from a Yellow Lion King Umbrella

                The sidewalk is drenched. The Christmas lights are sparkling, and as I look up from my reading—a preschool-aged boy skips by, sheltered from the rain by a bright yellow Lion King umbrella.

                In light of yesterday’s tragedy—I cannot smile at the sight without a twinge of sadness. Innocence is lost today for many children—lives taken away on the brink of their interaction with the world. We are grieving—and we should be.

                Yes, this boy reminded me of loss, of the pain of the assumed safety of innocence and elementary being wrenched away. It also caused me to sigh in empathy for the educators, first responders, parents, and families of Newtown. Yet it also reminded me of hope. I saw a picture of God’s love and protection, like that yellow umbrella, shielding us from the full reign of evil—and there is so much grace in that. We skip and grasp tightly to the handle of hope his salvation brings. We cannot forget that this Christmas.

                President Obama rightly stated that “these are our children” and reminded us that “the Lord is near the brokenhearted to bind up their wounds”. In the midst of recovery and asking why—we have to remember that this points us to hope—the One who can bind our wounds. He alone can heal a generation of angry, violence saturated minds, and aimless early-adult drifting and restore them to be adults of integrity, with determination to live out goals for good. By His grace we will heal, we will have hope. We will skip under His faithful umbrella of love and peace.

In the Valley of the Vision

                I cannot believe it is December 13^th—where did this year go? It has been a tumultuous and momentous year of firsts and with its share of pain. I have held newborns and mourned losses many times over. I lived out a lifelong dream—Kenya, and today I am still “experiencing” many things as I process, mourn, and move forward. In hindsight, I was reluctant to return to Seattle—I didn’t want to stop “livin’ the dream” in a very literal sense. Now that I have been back, I know I can’t spend my days in reverie—I need to refocus and cast a vision.

Over the last few weeks I have had glimpses of being future oriented again—grad school plans, a second job coming through, and an even clearer picture of what my time in Kenya means for future plans. This has been difficult—a harvest, yes, but one that requires intentional effort to glean the good lessons and form new goals. I don’t have the “now what?!” mentality I did in September, and I am so grateful for that.

My “now what?!” is submission today. Just like before Kenya—I have to walk each day in trust, hope, and faith. The new goals intermingled with old dreams are real and present—having a family, returning to Kenya—but I do not need to be frantic, fearful, or so future oriented that I forget about today. Today I have purpose—a job I love with an amazing family, friends here, and so much more.

                Today as I read in Isaiah I was struck by the 5^th verse in chapter 22 which relates:

The Lord of hosts has a day of tumult and trampling and confusion in the valley of vision, a battering down of walls and a shouting to the mountains.

This verse is a beautiful picture of the last two and a half months for me—they have been confusing, tumultuous with grief and joy; but they have also been the valley of vision. I am not naïve to think I’m out of the valley, especially as materialism rears its ugly head around Christmas, as I remember friends and family lost this year, and as I still wait for the fulfillment of the dreams of marriage and a family. I know this valley is purposeful—it IS battering down my walls—cultural frameworks, idols of proving myself and of control. It has caused me to shout to the mountains. But—it is the valley of vision. The valley is sanctifying, a sure part of God’s promise to work for my good and His glory, always.

   As I walk through this valley, as I see paths and begin to cast a vision in faith—I walk in hope. I trust that the sovereign Savior who has led me to today will faithfully lead me into a thousand tomorrows.

Longing and loving December 8, 2012

   This has been a heavy and full week….I was SO blessed to be entrusted to watch my Pastor’s kids for several days and that experience was so fun—it also taught me a lot about myself and just how precious children are. But, in the midst of playing “soccer mom” I was also burdened by the weight of processing—my hearinglossiversary is the 27^th…that will be 5 years since I discovered I have bilateral genetic hearing loss…and the reminder of that, as well as seeing first-hand how it will affect my parenting/sleeping habits…. is always bittersweet. Yes, painful because I am still able to look back and remember life before hearing aids…but also so sweet—I have grown so much because of my loss, not simply in spite of it—and I think this year I want to celebrate that—to celebrate that God uses hard things to humble, He hurts to heal. That my life changed inexplicably 5 years ago—but it hasn’t been as horrible as I thought it would be—in fact, it has brought a lot of hope. I have hope that I can persevere, that I can adapt, that I can ask for help and it doesn’t mean I’m helpless.  Additionally, this week was weighty because grieving, like ogres, is like onions…lots of layers  some of which choose to expose themselves very much like onions—causing you to tear up randomly while sipping a seasonal latte at Starbucks.

                With all that said—the rest of this post will be more of a list; my personal Pollyanna “glad game”. But I also want to remember the things I am longing for….not forgetting all the things I love.


Longing: fire pit bbq’s and laughter with old friends, movie nights, the smell of fresh Kenya rain, monkeys crossing my path, having to watch my step on a “sidewalk”, children calling out “how are you?!”, walking everywhere, street side markets, volleyball nights, acoustic worship, sleeping under a mosquito net, being able to call getting groceries exercise because of carrying them the 15 minute walk back, badminton, tree house Bible study and reading time, communal dinners, Masai markets, crossing the street like frogger, hiking up my skirt to leap over a puddle, greeting everyone with handshakes, mendazi, chapatti, instant community, the sound of a good Kenyan downpour, living within walking distance of all my friends, beautiful vases by dusty roads, red dirt, Habeshas, pizza-flavored bagel chips, …

 

Loving: holiday decorations, cinnamon scented—everything, evening drives peppered with Christmas lights, reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever and sharing it with kids, gingerbread lattes and cookies, Acoustic Christmas Music, Advent Carols at church, re-reading the Anne of Green Gables series, holiday movies, skype, finding and re-reading old letters,  crisp air, chunky scarves, surprising sunny days, children’s honesty and joy…

Who Will Tell Their Story?—25th November 2012

                I awoke in a puddle of tears, long before I had to start my Sunday. I awoke from a dream that was painfully beautiful—a prayer. I awoke in pain—snippits of the dream reminded me of its premise—that death and hurt are real, pervasive. My mind and eyes flooded by memories, questions, anguish. Pain for those, I guess I have to include myself, who are missing people around the holiday celebrations. Whose smiles are accompanied by glistening eyes that unmask of the pain of missing the person who died in new and tangible ways—an empty chair, a gaping hole in the holiday pictures. Loss is painful. It changes you in a million inexplicable ways—and is a frustrating whack-a-mole in the knack it has for catching you off-guard with a vengeance and with memories. It is a process.

                When I dried my tears—oh let’s be honest—I’m still a dripping faucet, but proverbially dried them—looked over old letters, and resigned myself to the reality of feeling THIS, now; I was able to look a bit past my pain and to be thankful.

                I was thankful to be alive—to have the voice of my pen, my family here, and memories. I relieved memories of mundane details and snapshots of monumental events. I was brought back to simple and profound moments—from classroom memories to trips and events. I was thankful for photographs—yet resigned that they never do a person justice. Like C.S. Lewis articulates, they are only an icon—never measuring up to the real thing. They often shock you with the thought “well now, they didn’t look quite like that…not really”.

                Simultaneously I was burdened. The dream reminded me of the importance of legacy living. Many of those who I know who died this year had such legacies—of faith, friendship, families, and joy. I am thankful there is solace in remembering; in sharing stories and in “keeping them alive” by not letting their impact stop just because their heart has. I heard once that most people are forgotten within 50 years after your death—or maybe that only 25 people will remember you that long after. Maybe the cyber world is changing that—facebook reminds me of people I’ve lost by bringing up their picture at random times, but anyway, the point is—no one wants to be forgotten.

                But who will tell the stories of those who are lost in obscurity? Their life is just as important. Who will put into the “cyber vault” the stories of those who lived purposefully in a poverty we as westerners cannot grasp? I will.

                I will tell the story of a precious girl from Kibera I only knew for eight weeks. A girl who had seizures and possessed a smile that lit up a room. A girl who embraced her life, her classmates, and her school in the way she was able—she was present. She smiled, waved, and was included by her peers. She had a joy at learning to make paper airplanes and tossed them with glee. She shared her plane and her joy with me—wanting me to throw it and thanking me with her eyes. She shamelessly learned from and loved her peers who cared for her—unasked and willingly helping her through the daily routine. I will remember. I will feel. I will speak. I will write. Loss is painfully and powerfully purposeful. I don’t want to waste it.

I Don’t Want to Write Tonight—16 November 2012

              

                My head hits the pillow and I instantly think “I don’t want to write tonight”. Yet the words spew forth. I sit up, sigh, open my journal and uncap my pen. Tonight it is a duty more than a delight. I don’t want to write. I don’t want to write because of the repercussions—the tears, the joys, the pain.

                I don’t want to process—yet I’m realizing how much I’m really just along for the ride for the mental journey this is. I don’t want to write tonight. I want to rest in the thousand little things about this year that were so joyful…I even numbered them and tucked them away in a neatly collaged journal. I don’t want to write about the children I want to scoop up in hugs and remind that no matter what the world, their parents, their caregivers tell them they are not an accident and they are infinitely loved. I don’t want to write about the fact that I actually miss the deep breath necessary before a bus passed by on my daily walk. I don’t want to write about missing stoney (ginger ale in glass bottles), the noise of market chatter, the abundance of fresh mangos and infant-sized avocados. I don’t want to write about friends I miss, who even after a mere 90 days left a life-long impact. No—tonight I want to sleep, recover from a cold, and rest.

                But part of the processing is the patient persistence of doing what I can with what is on my heart and mind. “Short term missions” is a misnomer—its implications are life-long and life-changing—nothing “short” about that. It certainly has a myriad of rosy and joyful moments—but don’t be naïve that those moments are without momentous ramifications.

                Ironically, this post is a bookend to a week of feeling rooted and with normalcy. I may not want to write but I choose to obey the nudge. I do write to convey, to change, to cultivate joy and bring clarity. I write because I am compelled, called, and confident. I am confident that this confusion is a part of the re-entry. It will pass. I will rest. I will process. I will want to write again.

Weaning My Soul—November 12, 2012

                As I sat wrapped in a soft blanket, sitting in Jackson sunshine, I opened my Bible and reflected. I had a blessed full week with family—dinners filled with laughter, a buzzing kitchen, and joy. Exemplified by my grandpa’s heart-felt prayer that moved everyone so much we skipped the last song of the ceremony and went right to the reception. At times it felt bittersweet—knowing these days pass all too, especially in light of the last few months. But as I sat here today, soaking up the last few hours with my close friend and cousin, I opened to Psalm 131:2—“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me”, and was encouraged.

                I realized that these difficult few months have been a weaning process. God has fulfilled his plans and promises. He led me to Kenya and has led my time at home. I can trust His word. Even though this is a rough season, I am walking by faith and not frantically searching the scriptures for encouragement that “has to be there”—I know it is there. Like a weaned child I have trust in my constant Christ in the midst of changing and challenging situations. He is good. He is faithful.

                So as I prepare to fly home, it is with a heavy and hopeful heart. I know each day and season is a gracious gift from a good Father. My soul is quieted by his love and faithfulness.

When did I stop believing in Santa? November 7, 2012

               As I closed the cover on my second reading of “Orthodoxy” by Chesterton, I peered out he plane window and was struck by a convicting thought—When did I stop living in a way that believed and trusted God would continually, daily, reveal his truths and love to me? Then, oddly enough, I was reminded of the picture of kids who believe in Santa Claus, they trust that he brings good gifts and don’t doubt it…

                Maybe it’s because we’re on the brink of the holiday season…maybe my doubt of God’s daily blessing and revealing was brought on by the sadness of poverty, spouses and daddies lost way too soon clouded my vision. Maybe my tears turned truths into mere traces of seemingly broken promises. But when I think about it, really think through the situations around me, I know in actuality the truth of God’s goodness doesn’t falter in light of human depravity and our finite nature—rather it is the one constant. It doesn’t offer hollow platitudes like “they’re in a better place” or “well at least it’s the only life they’ve ever known…they’re used to it”…as if commonality makes it “right” somehow. No, Christ admits the pain, wept when his friend Lazarus died, and calls us to use our wealth to help the orphaned, poor, marginalized. Christ addresses the true pain then offers promises of hope—telling the dying thief that he will experience life in paradise because ofhis belief; tells us that the meek will inherit the earth. He offers the gift of hope in poverty and life in the face of death. He gifts in light of sadness.

                Somewhere along the line I stopped really trusting his provision in pain. I became jaded as the sadness piled up around me and fell into moralistic patterns of “coping” while the practical trust gave way to a theoretical thought pattern that claimed trust but lived out fear and pessimism.

                It’s akin to a child losing their belief in Santa. Up until a certain point, many children never think to doubt the myth of Santa. They don’t reason away the ways their faith doesn’t seem to measure up wit hthe world around them by scrutinizing practicalities of the width of their chimney, the heat of the coals, the number of children he theoretically visits. They have faith and trust that he brings good gifts. I know this analogy is fallible and a stretch. But, there is a reason so many parents play along. Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems like an inkling of Eden; a finite way of attempting to reclaim trust in a father who gives good gifts and receives our meager offerings, like milk and cookies, with joy. Santa doesn’t need the snack; God doesn’t “need” our obedience. Yet, He delights in it and we find our true and lasting joy in offerings of love and trust to the one who freely gives. Additionally, Santa has justice—a naughty and nice list—and this echoes Jesus’ sovereignty and omniscience, his right to look at a man’s heart and to bless those he calls according to his purpose.

                But, at some point we stop believing, stop accepting the gift and reason away evidences of grace, stop trusting the perfect and true “Father of Christmas”.  Above the roaring plane engine my soul is quieted by his love. In this moment I am grateful for the grace to be convicted, to have child-like faith rooted in reason and true hope. I can’t wait to see His truths and gifts revealed today.

Grieving and Processing are a Spiral

As I sink back into the couch, adjust my almost crossed ankles, and sigh; I know I must write tonight.  It seems like it has been eons since I sat down and composed something coherent and yet it also feels like yesterday I wrote like I meant it…but then again, the 46 days since I said goodbye to Kenya have passed in the same way. This week, I am being reminded of my worth without works. I am not on the path to proving myself, pulling myself up by my proverbial bootstraps, or vainly grasping at the plates of processing and adjusting to keep them spinning. I cannot.

Those two meager words are so freeing. I cannot force myself to process. I can’t “get over” the friend, cousin, and acquaintances that lost their lives in the last 2 months. It is a lie to think that there is a formula and timeline for grief and for transition. Any “plan”, book, article, piece of advice that offers a quick fix to feeling right side up and “back on your feet” is a gimmick and futile. Grief and processing are a spiral. Some days eating lunch and enjoying some of my favorite foods will pass with a quick prayer of gratitude, and yet others my eyes could be blurry as I choke on the same delectable taste because it reminds me of the precious babies that didn’t get to eat today, or of a memory of a long ago barbeque with friends. And that’s okay. It’s healthy. It’s a part of the spiral of grief and processing.

                And its pride that tells me anything different. Its pride that tells me to cover up those broken moments and the same pride that overconfidently pats itself on the back when it appears that I’m “over that stage”.  In the usual pattern God works…by throwing multiple things in my path which in their own voices harmonize a perspective of a singular message, I was reminded yesterday of how pride seeks to control and is fearful and angry when its desires are thwarted and that it ultimately condemns. Pride is either put to death in you or it will kill you. It will quench your true hope, vision, and cut you off from sources of life like family, friends, and ultimately, THE source of life, Jesus.

 You see, you and I will die. You. And. I . Will. Die.

Read that again. 
               Then take a deep breath and realize the weight that just like the family and friends I lost in the last two months, your time will come. Then, remind yourself that you have so much to live for. This moment matters and it’s not too late to stop living like you have to prove you matter. Live in freedom and love. Freedom to admit you’re human, you hurt, you grieve, you take time to process. You are alive today. This moment. For a reason and for a purpose. Where you are at may hurt, may be confusing, may be full of real grief—but it’s a part of your life not the entirety of it. Be humble enough to admit when you are wrong, are hurting, are breaking, and be open to receiving. Receive forgiveness. Grace. Hope.

                It is in these moments, okay they feel like years of twilight zone days, know that it is okay to be real with where you are. Freedom comes when you can admit you need forgiveness, need grace, and need to be reminded there is an eternal hope in the midst of your temporal pain. Jesus died for your pride—even if you and I never admit that our grief is a spiral not a “to-do-list” we can check off—we are wholly loved.  You. Are. Loved. When you cry out in grief, walk in a daze because so many formerly habitual things take effort or are cringe-inducing, when you are able to take a deep breath—you are loved. I know in the coming days and weeks, especially in this holiday season, I will need to re-read this. I will have to remind myself that my imperfect ways of grieving and processing have already been paid for. All the times I will want to rage against materialism this holiday season, all the times I will shake my fists believing that I know best when my family and friends should ‘ve left this earth, in each of those moments I am still perfectly loved and those sinful, temporal attitudes of doubt and fear and despair have all been paid by a perfect Savior who took those burdens. He is with me in the grieving and the processing and his perfect grace covers each bend in the spiral.

Believing When it Doesn't Make Sense

...believing when it doesnt make sense...-Francis Chan Erasing Hell p. 107
   
                Faith is believing when it doesn’t make sense. When a wonderful daddy suddenly dies leaving two precious teenagers behind. When I see a hundred children go without food—eating paper and crayon shavings in an attempt to ease their pangs. When a young—married less than two weeks—man dies in a work accident. When a godly 24 year old succumbs to cancer. It aches. It hurts to the core and stirs up fears of—if them, why not me? Or, why am I living this abundant life when those precious babies are starving? Where is the assurance when this world is crumbling, crying, cancer-ridden? When complacence and consumer-driven selfishness engulf a culture too gluttonous to look up from their rotting piles of wealth-based identities to see the plight of their fellow man? When we almost believe we are entitled while comforting ourselves and quieting guilt with the audacious thought that the poor somehow deserve or have earned it.

                Where is compassion? Courage? Victory? Where does faith find its footing in a world of contradictions and disparities? Where do I start with removing my own planks when I see the collective effects of a culture shattered by splintered truths?

                Faith is believing when it doesn’t make sense. Our western mindset wants an easy fix—from diet pills to every magazine littered with “10 steps to a sure result”. We want clear answers to complex problems. We want a microwaveable solution to a Thanksgiving feast amount of work. But faith calls us to patience, to humility, to admitting we are finite and broken. We are infantile in our desires and patience. Faith quiets our questions by reminding us of the form of our salvation—suffering. It reminds us that we are part of the problem and that our eyes are tainted by sin. Faith is without foundation if we abandon it when it doesn’t offer a quick fix, an instant gratification. Faith reminds us the cross of suffering leads to salvation—not a pain-free and easy answer. I believe when the world doesn’t make sense because faith is the only thing that does.

A New Way of Seeing Things

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller 

                One thing I have been learning the past year is summed up by this quote. As I look back over my journey to Kenya, I can see how it wasn’t so much about getting me to the specific country—although I know I was supposed to meet, learn from, and teach the Kenyans and fellow missionaries I met—as it was to teach me. Every step of the journey, from applying to SIM at the prompting of my missionary friends, to the plane bringing me back to Seattle was intentional. The preparation for the trip—the application, support letter writing, waiting, packing, all of it taught me patience, perseverance, and stepping out in faith.

                Each part was pivotal for the next stage and interwoven purposefully. I needed to persevere in the many “to-do” lists for Kenya-medical, support raising, etc. because it helped me to remember that each day is pivotal and important for the fulfillment of dreams…to quote a cheesy country song “it’s one day closer to you”. Not only that, but I can look in hindsight at how God prepared me from a young age for my time in Kenya-wiring me to love travel (even as a baby) and even taking Spanish all those years which was an immense aide in my acquisition of Kikuyu, a tribal language of Kenya. In a different way, the week Jennie and I spent up country was such an encouragement for the rest of my time—reminding me how Jesus literally is my next breath, my sustainer, guide, and friend.

                We can live in the moment—whether dreaming or living out our dreams—knowing that each minute is crucial to the plan God has for our lives. It will stretch us, teach us, encourage us, and will ultimately be used for good. Even before I left so many people, seasoned missionaries and people who have never left their home state, told me that this trip was going to change me. But just like getting stared at up country, you can’t really anticipate that and prepare for it. Even as I am starting to glean new things from my time in Kenya, I am surprised at what I see.

                I see that I am changing in hard but necessary ways and I know that this will continue for a lifetime. Bear with me as I go off the top of my head and spew what has been stewing for a month or so and is just now ready to be poured out. I am changed. I now think in a “world clock format” automatically thinking “switch am to pm minus 2 hours” for what time it is in Kenya and then praying for my friends and the children I know there. I also have a newfound empathy for immigrants, orphans, and widows around me. I also think twice about buying new clothes or other “non-essentials” and often give thanks for all the material things I have. Similarly, I find it hard to look through Sunday ads and find commercials to be annoying and so superfluous.  Oddly enough, I slightly feel like I did after graduating from Trinity Western—realizing how much I loved being surrounded by/living with like-minded friends who I was able to easily do life with. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends and family here…but there’s a unique bond built by the shared experiences on a mission field. I am so thankful for social media which allows me to keep in touch with the friends I made. Anyway, this is just a glimpse of my recent thoughts and struggles.

One month out- scattered musings

 So it has been one month since my feet hit the northwest soil after the fulfillment of a life-long dream. Where am I at? Where do I go? How have I changed?

                These questions, their answers, and a million other thoughts flood my mind daily.

Where am I at? Well, I finally feel like the dust has settled as far as the crazy first three weeks are concerned—the surreal-ness about being back in the USA and all the mixed thoughts, surprises at changes, and the odd habits that don’t seem to fit here anymore…I am angry and joyful, grieving the loss of my friend, the sudden loss of my cousin and subsequent whirlwind trip to Minnesota (including a near-death my mother fell asleep at the wheel incident on the drive home), starting back at work, and plugging back in to my church family. I am learning it is okay to be where I am—to only be working part time and to know I need that—I need the freedom to process, to reconnect, to reconcile my corner of the world with the bigger picture I lived in for 3 mere months. I am pensive, nostalgic, weepy and joyful—usually in a span of 15 minutes. I am incredibly blessed to have supportive and understanding friends who let me talk, cry, and tie in my experience to daily life here. I am learning to have grace with myself knowing that transition is a process and I will be gleaning lessons from this experience for a lifetime. To anyone who has let me tell a story for the hundredth time, let me show them pictures and videos, thank you. Thank you for being a part of my Kenyan journey.

                Where do I go? I have learned to focus more on the day to day. Today I go to work, I read, I listen, I reconnect. I step into my days and weeks knowing that I can only take one day at a time and must see it as a gift. I go into my church family and share the story of the children in Kibera with the children I am privileged to teach here—ones with huge hearts who want to know the kids by name and want to send their toys to them. The reality of death has been pummeling me lately and it’s been a blender. I am grieved by the family, friends and acquaintances (a guy who went to my university) I’ve lost, hurt for their close loved ones, and can’t help but think of the precious kids I know by name who live in the largest slum in east Africa and face the reality of death daily. It has been a unique struggle because it really hasn’t been a “shaking my fists at Jesus” time—but more of a grasping of the reality of sin and death and hurt in this world which is humbly leading me TO Him—the only constant, the only hope that keeps its promise. So, I go to the cross, I go to the Bible, I go to the One who never leaves me or forsakes me. I go out into my day with a somber purpose—knowing that this life is not a guarantee. I go out with hope—that I can reconnect, can adjust, can keep the memories and friendships I made in Kenya. I go out intentionally—telling the stories of the children; and with a new-found gratitude for the life I didn’t ask for nor do I deserve. I go out in prayer—trusting that my time in Seattle is purposeful and that each day here matters just as much as everyone I spent in Kenya.

                How have I changed? That is difficult to grasp—and I know it will continue to change as I process and adjust…but what exactly am I adjusting to? I know I won’t adjust back to “what I was” and that’s exactly how it should be. I never want to take the *little* things for granted—clean running water, trustworthy electricity, a full fridge, an education, and health, to name a few. I don’t want to jump back into the sea of a consumerism and materialistically defined sense of security, status, and joy. I know I cannot throw off the culture I was born into—and in some ways will have to accept this reality around me. But I never want to forget to be grateful for the abundant blessings here—even if that means awkwardly tearing up as I munch on fries with friends after church—grieving for the kids I know who may not have eaten today. I have changed in that I am more aware of how time-focused western culture is. I am changed because I am blown away by how constant Jesus is. I have changed in so many ways—many I know I cannot yet articulate. I am changed and know that this one month is just the beginning.

This is my Beautiful Life

                As I read another witty essay by the late Norah Ephron, I found myself wishing I wrote like her—had the early-adult stories sown in candid sprouts for posterity. The instantaneous thought that followed—you can and you do—was freeing, and so I wrote—

                I do have a beautifully imperfect life. My ears don’t work half as well as yours—literally. I am the size of an average fifth-grader causing many unseen “cat reaches for the toaster and falls off the counter” scenes. I stay up too late because I write and create best at 2 am—and regret it almost every morning but that doesn’t keep me from rationalizing again at 1:30 am. At any given moment I am in the middle of three to five books—many I am re-reading. Frequently I am reminded of book and movie quotes as well as jeopardy trivia—even describing this quirk with a quote from You’ve Got Mail—“so much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book once, but shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I am guilty of blurting out of context comments that only have coherency in the context of my cranium. I adore alliterations, sunsets, puns, and cinnamon.

                I am in love—with Jesus, everything Autumn, used book stores, notes of encouragement, travelling, children from the Kibera slum, and making a child smile. I love creating with bright colors and photography but, like my writing—they occur in frantic bursts of inspiration rather than disciplined practice. Every so often I have a love affair with tea but I always reconcile with coffee. I have a disdain for cheese graters and washing strainers. If it’s witty I’ll love it but if its trashy and full of innuendos your grandma wouldn’t understand I probably won’t watch it. I change my pens based on my mood and go through journals like some women go through a can of hairspray. If I have socks on and there’s a wood/linoleum floor 97% of the time I will enter a room in Jerry-Macguire-esque slide. I am slightly embarrassed to be writing so much about myself—akin to an early-prepubescent boy caught flexing by his mother. But I am unapologetic.

                I am free because I am loved. I am cherished and confident because I am chosen. I am living my one beautifully imperfect life. So, future posterity—and present reader—here’s my essay, my excerpt, my life.

Be Still in the Process

Well autumn weather has finally hit Seattle. Cue a cozy, pajama wearing, vanilla chai filled, rainy day. As I laid in bed this morning, my thoughts volleyed between “it is okay to be where you’re at today” to “planning” my day of rest—yes, scheduling the “relaxing” things. It was in the midst of these thoughts, the bubbles of sadness of missing Kenya, “my kids”, and the waves of missing my cousin and friend that I was reminded that “The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still” (Ex 14:14). My heavenly daddy has this in his hands, I don’t have to figure it out, sort out my thoughts, or “get over these things” because He is with me,  quiets me by his love (Zephaniah 3:17). I can take each hour and emotion that comes today and have peace because when I am weak He is strong.

                I can admit that in a way I can identify with C.S. Lewis’ broken ramblings of grief. Presently, his remarks that “and, grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen” as well as his admonition that “there is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss. Like those dreams where nothing terrible occurs—nothing that would sound even remarkable if you told it at breakfast-time—but the atmosphere, the taste, of the whole thing is deadly” (A Grief Observed).

                That is exactly how this transition time has felt. Things at home are “the same” but I’m not—and that’s right where things need to be. It doesn’t mean that this time is easy, or enjoyable. It doesn’t mean that I don’t surprise myself with my thoughts about materialism, poverty, even grief. But overreaching I know this is a season. It will always have an effect on me—to degrees I will always miss the time I spent in and the people I met in Kenya, my cousin, my friend, and the beautiful kids I was privileged to know. And that’s okay.

                It’s okay to be exhausted, to be sad, to be indecisive because of all I’m processing. It’s okay to need time. Today I will rest in the fact that I am where I am, right now, for a reason. I don’t have to, nor will I really ever “get over” these things. They will be woven into my life, settled in my heart, and utilized for my good in time. Today I will listen to the rain, tuck a cozy blanket around me, pour another cup of chai, and let it be.

Autumn in America—difficult beginnings

                I have been horrible about writing this past week. It’s mostly been because I have no idea where to start.

 I can’t believe I’ve been home, back in Seattle, for 12 days. It has been a rollercoaster. Some hours have felt like the beginning of the ride—I’m getting strapped in, ready for a new adventure back the States, and especially when reunited with family and friends, while others—especially the morning hours, are like the drop after a hill—terrifying and causing your stomach to leap into your throat because of the unfamiliar. Then there’s the crazy circles, when you don’t know what to feel or think—you just have to ride them out. This week has been just like that.

 

I have been blessed to have a warm welcome here—including at surprise 25^th/welcome home party from my church small group. But these 12 days have not been easy. I didn’t realize how much I had changed—how materialism was going to affect me—with disgust and contempt for the “meccas” shopping malls are. I also didn’t realize how much I would miss Kenya…miss my “Kenya family” as well as the precious kids I got used to seeing 5 days a week. I even miss the 5ish miles of daily walking. 

Don’t get me wrong—I know I am supposed to be here…and there have been many joys--a trip to portland, happy hour conversations, hugs from people I missed while in Kenya, and sunny Seattle days. Autumn is hands down my favorite season—the crisp air, rainbow of leaves, and cozy clothes and food—it’s just been crazy to try and process so many things—Kibera, things that have changed here,  North American materialism, the death of my friend, and, most recently, the shocking death of my cousin on Sunday. It is hard to not feel overwhelmed, like I can’t catch up.

 

But I am so blessed. I have a wonderful circle of friends here who have helped me process, let me talk, and some have articulated their own experiences of the “reverse culture shock” entering back into life in North America brings. Several people have reminded the “future oriented” me to take it one day at a time, to start right where I’m at (overwhelmed, sad, and “swimming”), and to trust that my Heavenly daddy doesn’t expect me to figure this out, to sort everything out on my own. He walks with me (and talks with me, and tells me I am his own). As I inhale the crisp air, turn towards the sun, and intentionally stomp on crunchy leaves, I know that I will work through this. I will learn what he prompts and be quieted by his love (Zephaniah 3:17). I can take this transition time one day, one hour at a time.

Let your heart be heard- September 23rd

So I JUST posted my previous blog, but apparently I’m a verbal fire hose this morning. Last night before bed I had a song that we sang at the volleyball nights in Nairobi stuck in my head—sing along, by Christy Nockels, especially the line that summed up my heart for my kids in Kenya which asks “Great God (to) wrap your arms around the world tonight, around the world tonight, and when you hear our cries, Sing through the night, so we can join in Your song, and sing along”… This morning the lyrics were still on repeat in my head so I looked up the rest of the song.

The part that prompted this post in in the bridge and it asks God to “let your hope ring out, let your heart be heard”. This struck me in many ways.

I want Jesus’ hope to continue to ring out in Kibera—to be a tangible source of security and joy for my kids who lack security of basic needs. I want them to remember the stories Jennie and I were able to share from the bible and from our lives that show Jesus is the constant and is able to keep his promises. He is the only hope that lasts.

I also want Jesus’ heart to be heard—I believe that anytime we are touched by a story, moved by an example of sacrifice, love, pain, and joy—you know, the ones that go beyond “I scratch you scratch” generosity, love that had to be fought for and is sacrificial, and the pangs of empathy of hearing of loss, as well as the elation we share when someone we know has joy—it  is a tangible way for us to hear the heart of our heavenly Father. He shares his heart in the fact that we were made in his image, we love because He loved us and in our emotional heartstrings being tugged by the human experience.

The next, almost simultaneous reflection, was that I am a part of Jesus’ heart being heard. One way I can be responsible to my kids in kibera is by sharing their stories, the way their lives touched my heart, and by being the tangible example of Jesus’ heart for the orphaned, the widowed, the oppressed, the suffering, the poor, the children He calls to him. Part of my heart is still in Kenya SO I can share it with others and BE the way that God lets his heart be heard. He breaks my heart so it can be poured out as an offering, as a living sacrifice. Even this difficult time of re-entry is purposeful, it is a glimpse of the Father’s heart and love. I will never look at the passages that talk about caring for the orphaned, widowed, foreigner, and the poor with the distance that I previously did. The things I will share in coming weeks are not primarily about my experiences—they’re about proclaiming his hope and letting His heart be heard.

Home is where the heart is…. 23 September 2012

I’m back in Seattle and am looking forward to my return to church this morning. It has been a whirlwind couple of days.  After writing my last post, I was able to get off the SIM headquarters and spend a relaxing evening watching football, having a good conversation, and playing with an adorable puppy—a great way to be welcomed back into America.

I am SO grateful for SIM and the short term program (STA). Friday morning was spent in prayer, then meeting with the necessary people to close out my trip—cue the health questionnaire and medical evaluation. This also entailed a meeting with the finance office. I knew once I returned that random things would  “get” me—teary eyed, nostalgic, sad, irritated, especially the next few weeks and months. However, I did not expect the tears that would come at seeing that Nolan (my old friend who passed away) and Kacie had supported me financially. That was tremendous surprise and blessing. Another aspect of the debrief was meeting with the heads of the STA and getting to talk about my time and hear their insights. This was exactly what I needed and I am so thankful for them—and for the Mexican food we grabbed for lunch!

After a couple of plane rides I was back in Seattle. As the escalator rose to the baggage claim area, my head and heart prayed that I would have the right reaction—one that was joyful at seeing my family and friends—because, in all honesty, then and even now I am torn to be here. I know the emotional and mental fatigue, irritability, and confusion are all normal parts of re-entering my once familiar culture after living in a developing country, but just like knowing my skin color would make me stand out in Kenya, the reality still takes you by surprise. I received a warm welcome and was glad to see my parents and a few friends. I was also blessed to come home to banana muffins and to the willing listening ears who let me reminisce and show a few pictures.

Saturday was a pleasantly busy day of attempting to sleep in (thanks, jet lag), and already seeing the reality of one of the re-entry handouts.         It related that while this journey changed you, others have not had the same experience and you cannot expect them to understand…but you can share what you experienced and it may influence one person at a time. This occurred when my neighbor stopped by wanting to borrow our truck, she related that she was donating some things and was realizing that she has too much stuff and wanted to not live that way. My dad articulated that “you are with  someone who gets that completely” referring to my early morning rant that my room was full of crap and that I wanted to get rid of so much of it.  After she borrowed the truck, she returned and thanked me for my honesty –for how I shared that coming home from spending time in Kibera opened my eyes to the fact that all too often at home I unconsciously put my security in keeping things “just in case” when I really didn’t need them—because after hearing that she decided to get rid of three more boxes. 

The rest of the day was spent going to my favorite coffee place with my dad and choosing to walk home. While I walked I was grateful for the time to clear my head and to feel like I was back home in Nairobi, where my days consisted of lots of walking. Later in the afternoon I was blessed to be able to share my fragmented memories with our Seattle “family” and was touched that their oldest, 4 year old daughter, wanted to hear my stories about the kids in “aprica” and understood the weight of sadness that they didn’t always have food. The evening was passed at a game night with a few friends and while it was slightly overwhelming to try and jump back into things, I was thankful for the insightful questions about my time and observations while in Kenya.  Driving back home, one friend who understands re-entry shock articulated that she experienced the same thing a few years ago and was thankful to learn that Jesus understands that we want to be home in both places that home is where our hearts are. With Jesus in our lives, our hearts, we can be home anywhere.

So today, I am thankful that my heart is torn, that a big chunk of it feels home in Kenya. I  don’t want to quench the part of me that wants to hop on the next plane back, scoop up my kids in bear hugs, and settle back into life on the compound with my Kenya family.  On the flip side, I don’t want to miss the people, blessings, and tasks God has for me back in Seattle, where my biological and church families are welcoming me and where I also fit. Basically, the past couple of days have shown me that it’s okay to have my heart in two places, and that a necessary part of my journey  is accepting that until heaven, I will never really feel home. This season is a tremendous reminder and example of that.

Back in the USA

Well I made it to Charlotte…leaving Nairobi Wednesday night (Wednesday at 12:30 in the afternoon home time) and arrived in charlotte 11pm Thursday nairobi time…1pm home time…16ish hours in planes and around 6 hours in airports…what a whirlwind!  (Please forgive this fragmented and jet-lagged post…P.S. I added this sentence after writing…so that tells you where I’m at mentally)

My last days in Kenya were SO blessed. I realize I haven’t written yet about visiting a school for children with special needs (an amazing experience and a place I want to return to) or about my last days at the school—which were So rewarding. Highlights: one of the girl’s mom coming to the school to meet me, a note from one of my middle school aged Bible studies girl telling me that “your advices have changed me to be a better girl”, and the marked improvement by the girl who on the first day didn’t understand a lick of English or Swahili (on the last day she said Hi and Bye).  Also, I was able to spend time with the girls I did orientation with and it was so great to catch up on our time and reminisce about how far we came in just 3 months. My very last day was relaxed, prayer and picture filled. I already miss my Kenyan family. Here are some snippits of my last days: (thanks to James Briggs for the school photos..he's amazing!)

 

My travel was pretty uneventful but I did see an amazing Amsterdam sunrise and met a church group from Atlanta who I “joined up with” while in Amsterdam. My flights were passed sleeping (surprisingly) and watching a couple movies. I did experience a bit of culture shock walking into the Atlanta airport-everything was so bright and clean…people seemed so hurried and busy…not to mention the cashiers looked at me pretty funny when I asked how they were doing (out of habit) and there were SO many similar food choices. Sadly, my taco craving will have to wait until Seattle…El Rinconsito…here I come!

 

Additionally, I was able to have time to reflect on my trip and all the things that I can already see have changed in me…I’m sure there will be many more things to note in the coming months…besides the notes above…I’ve also noticed things about America already…the fact that we are blind to the spiritual poverty around us but quickly point out the physical/economic poverty in other countries…definitely a log vs. stick thing…Yeah, Kenya has a long way to go in living out the gospel…we all do…but I was refreshed by the openness to talk about God, pray for others, and the plethora of spiritual words plastered on matatus and around Nairobi. Also, thanks to the public transportation in Nairobi, airplanes feel quite spacious...so that was a bonus. Personally…I know that I want to live more frugally and with gratitude for the undeserved blessed life of material ease that I have in America. I did nothing to earn or merit it…and the children I worked with did nothing to deserve the life of physical struggle they were born into. The truth is that ultimately we all need the same grace, the same forgiveness, the same salvation.  

Anyway…I’m off to shower, rest, and hopefully sleep past 3AM tonight J