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.