Weeping and Walking—July 24, 2013

This has been the first really really encouraging week in a long time. I have finally felt refreshed and reconnected. As I wrote earlier this week, I was able to work through old hurts and gain freeing perspectives on pain that had tied me down for way too long.  Those changes are still simmering in my soul and starting to season my thoughts. Another aspect of this week was the two-day camping trip with my dear friend—complete with unintentionally matching swimsuits, car concerts, and a new favorite coffee place. We also managed to make new friends with the people camping behind us who needed our help to speedily pack up after an emergency on the river earlier that day. (Their friend/brother is okay after a near drowning, but they were all pretty shaken up). In the midst of dusty drives, windy nights, and exploring Atticus coffee (too bad its 5 hours away) I began to look ahead and to find peace with the past—from years ago and just a few months.

Something that always amazes me is the knack God has for dropping specific books into my lap when I need to read them the most. This week I visited one of my favorite used book stores and providentially picked up the study “Ruth—loss, love & legacy” by Kelly Minter. I am only on day three—and we’re only 14 verses into the first chapter—but already I have been reminded of what a course in college I took on Ruth and Judges taught me—namely, that Ruth is a book full of God’s providential hand. He is rarely mentioned, but his circumstantial provision in the lives of Ruth and Naomi is practically shouted in every verse. Now, their story doesn’t start out in a way that we would see as “providential”—they are in a famine, move away from home, Ruth marries Naomi’s son; then all the men die, and a bitter Naomi decides to go where the blessing seems to be resting now—back home.  At this point in the study Minter talks about seasons of weeping. She remarked that each woman had the choice to weep forward or backward. Orpah chose to weep backward—to her old home and family, while Naomi and Ruth wept forward—they continued to journey to Judah. I had never noticed how they wept while they walked. They trudged forward not denying the grief of their circumstances or masking or even giving themselves over to it. They were real in their brokenness and I think that is what freed them to walk. The weeping gave them permission to move, it was the simple act of acknowledging their grief and living it that allowed them to breathe, to step.

This hit home for me. It’s not wrong to weep, to mourn, to feel the pain of this world. But I’m not called to stay there. I will miss so much before me—much like Orpah did—if I only look to the past. As new and scary things are on the horizon—most notably, an intense year of graduate school; it is important for me to weep while walking. I will never forget the friends and family I lost this year, nor the many experiences in Kenya—but I must continue to walk forward

Speaking in the Light What You Hear Whispered in the Darkness

What I tell you in the dark, say in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops- Matthew 10:27

I’m about to get real honest, okay, as in- heart on my sleeve, soul bared, no pretense. My heart is messy. It is deceitful and easily deceived. It is fearful, anxious, and, much like any facebook profile- only wants the good, the lovely, the things worthy of recognition and applause to make it to the light. But the truth is—its full of darkness, hidden hurts and buried beliefs. Ironically, it’s the hidden parts that drive my heart. The stuff I try to mask is what shapes my outer life whether I like it or not. The old wounds fester and are manifest in the things I get angry and anxious about today.  Shrek knew what he was talking about when he says that “ogres [and I would add humans] are like onions, [we] have layers”.

This past week, Thursday evening to be exact—some old lies and fears just couldn’t be buried anymore. My anxiety about my hearing loss, upcoming busy school year, and intense fear of parts of my heart on those and other issues finally bubbled to the surface. I couldn’t mask them anymore. In the midst of celebrating one of my favorite little boy’s birthdays I found myself feeling quite alone and anxious. This stuff needed to get talked out, ASAP.

A couple of hours later, as I settled into the couch cushions, my arms folded defensively, my dad asked with care and gentle insistence—what’s at the bottom of this? As tears trickled and then freely flowed, I found courage to speak what had been hidden for years, a decade—literally. Through my sobs the roots of so much anxiety, fear and ultimately—lies that had become personal truths, were exposed. It was in speaking what had been whispered to me and what I had then internalized, for so many years that the power of those lies was lost and I discovered that what I feared wasn’t a tenth of bad as I imagined it was. Speaking what was hidden didn’t cause the people who love me most to disown me, shame me, or surprise them so much that they didn’t know who I was anymore. Clarity and freedom from fear came with confession.

Today, several days later—I can’t help but think that I could have been freed from this so much earlier if I had been willing to share instead of hide my hurts. Burying fears only makes them worse, and the longer you hold it in the more you will want to burst.

But you see, that’s what the enemy wants. He was us to be fearful, tangled in roots that seem like truths but only thrive as long as they are hidden. Jesus intentionally tells us to speak what is in the darkness. Today, my heart is healing. It will take time to renew this sinful mind and hurt heart. But as I intentionally speak what so desperately wants to be hidden in darkness—I will continue to heal and walk in the light.

What Petra really Means

                Webster’s tells me that the Greek word Petra/Petros means rock/stone and no, I’m not talking about the 80’s band. Rock is something that is formed over time, by “heat and pressure” good ol’ Miss Frizzle echoes back at me—memories from a child I used to work with who wanted to read “the Magic School bus Inside the Earth” at least once a day. But for me, Petra also brings to mind (Simon) Peter, one of Jesus’ disciples who had that name chosen for him by Jesus.

I am one of those people who loves names and their meanings, when I have children someday it will matter greatly to me the meanings and implications of what I choose to call them—not in some “vicariously living through my children by giving them ‘empowering’ names” way—but because historically and across diverse cultures, naming is important and signifies a calling and chosen aspect of a child. The apostle Peter is a prime example. I love that Jesus chose to call him Peter when he chose him as a disciple, not some afterthought nickname. I equally love the fact that while Peter exemplified his name in many ways—it was also something for him to live up to. Peter didn’t always have a rock solid faith, and it definitely was formed by “heat and pressure”. Yes, he was the most eager, hopping out of the boat, the first to say that he would “never  deny Jesus”—but then he looked away, started to sink and frantically proclaimed that he was drowning. One minute he’s promising total allegiance, and an hour later he’s practically shouting that he never knew Jesus.  It is only after the resurrection that we truly see Peter’s “rock” side—he becomes a pillar of the early church and even mirrors his Savior by being hung on a cross—upside down.

But what I really love about Peter; and the word petra—is that it gives me hope. It reminds me that rock (solid faith) is formed over time—not in spite of the heat of doubt or the pressures of temptation around me—but through them. Peter wasn’t a rock because he never struggled; he exemplified his name because he persevered.

Peter gives me hope because I am so much like him. One minute I’m flinging myself across an ocean and 90 days later I’m looking at the waves of loss and suffering and shrieking that my faith is drowning. In prideful prayer I make promises of faithfulness and obedience that are broken moments after ‘amen’.

Peter reminds me that I’m called not because I’m perfect, but because I’m chosen. I can exemplify my own name’s meaning –consecrated to God—not by own strength or will, but by the Savior who chose that name, and who enables me to live out its meaning as he weaves each day into a tapestry of his perfect will. That, dear reader, is what Petra really means.

The Weight of Glory—July 8, 2013

                This time last year I had experienced one of the hardest, challenging, and eye-opening days of my life. It was my first full day at the first placement in a rural Kenyan city and it had been a whopper of emotions. (read more specifics, here). One thing that stood out from the writings of last July 7^th and 8^th was that doing things you are called to do is weighty. It is a burden to travel out of your culture, your comfort zone. It results in new perspectives that challenge to your core your assumptions, seemingly innate cultural identity, and faith.

                Mission life is only described as “majestic” by those who have never lived it. Sure, there are many joys, victories, exciting experiences—but it is also mighty difficult. You are often forced to realize things you had no idea you relied on to maintain a sense of security and comfort—personally- powerful water pressure, driving to a store, fabric softener, and the availability of constant connection. Those of us who have lived missions can only smile and nod at the starry-eyed-well-wishers—if we’re in the right mood and mindset to remember the thrills that do come with cross-cultural work. But our minds may also drift back to the difficulties of daily life that are just as much of a part of the “majestic” missions experience.

                You see, all glorious things are weighty. They almost always involve a burden,are cumbrous and difficult. Behind each moment of glory—from finishing a race to moving overseas, to the ultimate example of the cross—is preceded by hours of agony, hard work, tears, and difficult decisions to persevere. Glorious things are not easy and rarely, if ever, are obtained without a struggle. Part of what makes something glorious is the fact that it is fought for—and thus it’s appreciated more fully. This is why the epic stories are so beloved—we recognize glorious journeys by their weight—their toil and triumph. Personally, this season of re-entry, grief, and birthing of new dreams is glorious, weighty, and beautiful.

Pressing on Toward What Lies Ahead—July 1, 2013

                If the theme of last week was being “okay” in the desert and in the midst of storms, this week’s has surprisingly been—press on toward what (may) lie ahead.  When you’re in the desert—keep moving. Keep trusting. Keep walking even when all you see is sand, feel the heat of faith fatigue, and even when everything “rational” tells you to give up—lay out a towel—and sit and dream about past journeys. The last few months I’ve given in to living in the past—reliving last year’s joys and the journey my mere 90 days in Kenya was—and admittedly done everything but given up on the faith that has sustained me.  I wanted a quick fix (like the true-North American) and not have to persevere and work for something that seemed like a mirage. You can’t manufacture faith.

Ironically, it was in admitting the reality of the desert—that it WAS hot, uncomfortable, the “sand” of suffering getting into places I wanted to keep hidden—soul aches that needed the sand to bore into them—refine them into pearls. This process isn’t done. It’s lifelong and thus takes a lifetime. As I finished up a study, “No Other Gods” by Kelly Minter, I was struck by the liberating truths that this desert season isn’t a surprise to God. Just like He led the Israelites there for 40 years—this season was planned and is purposeful.

                However, this week it’s almost like a switch has flipped—and as much as I’m enjoying re-reading journal posts from “this time last year” and letting my mind drift back to distinct memories, I’m actually beginning to look ahead. I’m finally feeling the freedom to let the people who passed away “go”—remembering them fondly but not feeling as though I have to taint those memories with sadness that new ones can’t be made. Similarly, yesterday I experienced a burst of joy (albeit it may just be blissful ignorance) over the school year ahead.
                Just like Kenya used to be a “someday” dream that never went away—and just as much as I had to walk the dream daily—I have “unseen” things I hope for—marriage, a family, returning to Kenya—I have to walk this season, the “in between” by pressing on in what I can see as well as what is still a dream.

Through the Storm, You Set Me Free--June 29, 2013

                The title of this post comes from the song “You Set Me Free” by Angie Miller. As I  listened to this song, this lyric jumped out at me.  It is THROUGH, not in spite of, the storms of life that we are set free. When life is a tornado of hurt, loss, confusion, slammed doors, and pretension and false securities are stripped away. We are forced to admit where our hope and hearts lie and in this process we are set free from the things we cling to that cannot provide the security we seek.

Storms also reveal our stubborn pride, our desire to be autonomous and self-sufficient but yet proving so is only valuable when others see it—so paradoxical. Yet, meaning and joy is found in community—especially in floods, earthquakes, tornados, hurricanes, and other tragedies; when community bursts forth to provide for others. The storms of life set us free from the self-sufficiency that suffocates relationship and feeds pride.

Personally, the last several months of storms have set me free from the fears of expectation and failure. I have been so afraid that I’m “not where I should be” (not married, not living on my own, not back out on the missions field) not, not, not. Focusing on my “have-nots” is so crippling. I am easily crushed between the pride that tells me I should be somewhere different and the consequent feelings of inadequacy that no one but my internal thoughts are telling me. The storm of sorting out culture shock and the shortness of life forces me to feel like I need to be “doing something important” right now, immediately, and if not than I’m wasting life. But it is when I rest in the unrest that a transition season brings that I am free to learn from and in the storm instead of just fighting it.

I am grateful that it is IN the storm, not simply after the fact, that I have been set free by Jesus. He tells me I am loved, I am enough and I matter simply because I am his. I don’t have to strive to “be all I can be” because it doesn’t change my worth. I am loved the same on a lazy Saturday and a productive “finished to-do-list” Tuesday. I am set free.