The shrinking shadows of loss--7 years out

Today marks 7 years since I sat trembling in an ENT room while the doctor calmly, carefully, and as gently as he could changed my life. You have significant hearing loss and need to wear hearing aids.

I could almost hear my world quieting around me as my heart and mind fought the news. NO! Not me, I'm not even OLD yet. I internally screamed in fear, anger, disbelief--why me? why now? As I struggled with the weight of the news and the uncertain future--I couldn't help but feel like my life was over.

In some ways, it was--in the past 7 years a lot about my "pre-hearing aid wearing days" have become memories--swimming without thinking twice, checking the weather before I go for a run, getting anxious in dimly lit rooms or when I have to speak up about wanting captions, praying my alarm is loud enough to wake me but not scare the neighbor's dogs. Even spending nights alone in the house bring a lot of anxiety--because of course we'll be broken into the night I'm keeping watch. None of these were worries until 7 years ago. As the years have added up, I've started to realize those fears have their right place--a balance of realism and rationality have tempered them. After all the practice of them leaping to my mind and snatching my joy--I've learned to accept that they are just my personal tangible reminders that life is fragile, the rest of my body will fail me at some point too--but living in fear of future failures robs me of so much today.

But in more ways than I can count, my loss has given me riches. It has allowed me to enter into the suffering of those around me--I actually DO know what it's like to be given a diagnosis that changes everything--one you certainly didn't ask for. I'm grateful that this allows me to understand the turmoil of loss in the families I work with--the complexity of mourning what was or what wont ever be, but yet still wanting the world to know how blessed you are by what you DO have. I know how hard it can be to ask for help--to not what to be labeled as helpless, different, or less. But as time has gone on, I've learned to bite the bullet and speak up, to share, to invite others in--for our sufferings, just like our joys, are most influential and inspiring when they're shared. Ive recognized the tendency of my own heart to want to prove I'm self-sufficient--but in reality none of us live in a vacuum. Every expert was once a beginner.

So today, seven years into this journey--the shadows are still there, but now they're almost like old friends. Each one specifically pricks my heart in a way that I need it to be. I need to be reminded that my body will fail and die. I need to remember that the real inadequacy is the inability to ask for help, not the strength to admit it. The relational fears of being alone--in this journey and in life--still creep up late at night--but then I'm encouraged by the memories of friends who now simply put on the captions, let me sit in the front seat, or ask if I can hear. Every fear is an opportunity for my faith to grow--for me to trust that God leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul. These shadows are gifts.
After all, shadows can't exist without light.

Gratitude from a Dream

As people flow around the busy street, I bore myself deeper into the tattered sleeping bag. My dirt-stained hands and charcoal nails fumble at the zipper, wishing I could completely encase myself in a cocoon of invisibility. All my belongings dig into my stomach and legs as the cloth groans with each of my movements. I avoid eye-contact from disgusted strangers and the grins of innocently curious and friendly children. If only they knew. As I wander, the streets my life and grime dare someone to enter in, to not be repulsed, to see past my exterior and still make the effort to know and to love. Suddenly, I’m in a cluttered shop, surrounded by pottery painting children with genuine warmth. The owner, a mother, ushers my companions and I one by one, to her personal bathroom, I fidget nervously as I inspect the ground, as if moving will remove my stench. When it’s finally my turn, I’m amazed that she doesn’t hesitate to put her arm around me and welcome me—a filthy, outcast who had it coming, by many people’s standards. As the doorknob clicks open, the room turns bright, alive with spring and familiarity of family that is joyous for my return. I make my way up the stairs, careful to not mar the pristine walls with the grime I’m not certain the hottest shower can fully cleanse. I am followed by a loving family member who leads me into the upper room. Light trickles through the trees as I remove the layers I’ve hidden behind, I am exposed and embarrassed, I cannot continue, it is too uncomfortable to not be enclosed in my familiar filth. How did I get here? Why am I being loved, I don’t deserve this, thoughts flood my mind as I examine the hollow face in the mirror. Creased hands find my matted and greasy hair, and I flinch violently at the gentle touch—no, I don’t warrant this, don’t get your hands dirty—and yet, this compassion that surprises is what my heart has yearned for and wanted to know all along. As I timidly look into the glass, just enough to see the brush begin to free my knotted hair—I awake.

Immediately I realize it was all a dream, I am home—and it’s Thanksgiving. As my eyes clear my mind is flooded with images—glimpses of the homeless I know from my town the invisible within my sight, men and women who see the unseen and have been compelled to tangible grace.  I glance around my room and am reminded of the Transform Burien citywide service where we prayed to unite the church to reach all in our city—divided only by chair arms and aisles—not by denominations and congregations. I can’t help but feel the weight and responsibility of the dream—my personal George Bailey experience. I cannot ignore the realities of life around me and how by God’s grace, he has allowed my life to be one of material ease and financial provision. I had to give thanks to God for the dream—realizing what I remember most was not the hardness of the concrete, the spits of disdain, or the shame I felt, rather it’s the compassion of strangers to me, someone who couldn’t give anything back.  The point of the dream wasn’t that I identify with homelessness in an obscure way, it was to remind me that the Gospel reaches the least of these—me. How we love the homeless, the abandoned, the outcast, can be a reflection of the gospel in our lives. Each of our hearts are clothed in tattered rags and need gracious love that looks past our inner filth and still chooses us to cleanse. This kind of love does not deny our filth or our need for redemption, rather the love is the thing that washes—it says that I know you are unworthy but I died for you. I know you cannot cleanse yourself—I will do that. I AM. I am the one who washes you, who straightens your tangles and mends your rags. Be grateful and gracious as I have generously given my grace to you. Live to others the love that transformed you. Allow me to use you to bring about my transformation in your city, your neighborhood, as I continue to transform your heart. Give thanks by living generously. Live the love you’ve received, one day, one person, at a time.

More than a coffee shop

     The scream and hum of the espresso machine, the chatter of friends, the smell of fresh rain, the clink of mugs on tables, all surround me. This place is full of life—in all walks and seasons. From celebratory meetings, to the start of fresh love, and passed tissues and encouraging hand grasps. Life is full of juxtapositions and contradictions. The coffee shop is a microcosm of culture. It reflects the world and the city it exists in. you can tell a lot about someone from what they order, how they treat strangers, customers, children, the disabled and elderly. The way a person studies—tuning out the clang and the clatter.

                The attire of the patrons, the design of the interior, the menu—all reflect what is normal, valued, and es”steamed” –organic, local, gluten-free. This place exemplifies my culture, my city.

                But it also reflects me. The things I prioritize—relationships, academic study, being a part of my culture—knowing and interacting with those I attend church with, live beside, the ones who also call this place home. The way I view those different than me, the way I put others first, what I choose to drink and eat—all apparent in this place. How do I respond to the slow orderer, the homeless person with a stench, the mom with an overflowing and shrieking stroller? This place, Burien Press, is where I press into Burien—where I begin to know the homeless by name, the giggles from the stroller, the priorities of those around me. If I hope to influence my culture, I must know it. I have to know to understand and to speak into the lives around me. This step can be as easy as sharing a cup of coffee.

“I will give you treasures of darkness”

                Today, I’ve studied and written—two staples of this season of preparation. I woke up looking back and look at what I lack—not a fun place to be. It’s easy for my simple life to feel hollow when I compare it to the weddings, babies, and careers around me. Every so often, I read back through my blog, reminiscing on what I’ve been inspired to write about in the past. Often, this leads to appreciation for this day and season as I look back with fresh perspective.

                One theme from today’s perusing was how each season has blessings and burdens—that often are only appreciated in hindsight. From my time in Kenya, to transitioning home, to the whirlwind of school—each adventure stretched and strengthened me in many ways. In the midst of each season, even in this one, I tend to focus on what I wish I had or what I seem to be missing. But when I look back, I can see how each season’s “lack” was a lesson—preparing me for this day and circumstance; and that encourages me today. A verse from Isaiah sums up this idea when God tells the Israelites that  “I will give you the treasures of darkness and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the LORD, the God of Israel, who call you by your name” (Isaiah 45:3).

               Exactly, as I look to where I’ve been—past jobs, colleges, Kenya—I can see how each step was pivotal and the lessons were treasure. At the time they seemed like darkness-why did I lose my hearing, wait to go back to school, have the privilege of working in Kibera? But in hindsight I can see why. The banes are blessings—treasures out of darkness that remind me that my life is purposed. So the things I sometimes see as banes —studying, singleness, an open social calendar—are actually blessings. They remind me that God has called me—he knows heart, my secret places, and is purposeful in how he’s purposed my circumstances. There are always treasures in darkness.

Come in with the rain

The first drop darkens the pavement, followed by a thousand others that run and blend and wash away the dirt, the filth, making rivers in the crevices. Autumn is here. Rustling leaves, rolling clouds, and sporadic sunbreaks mark this favorite season of mine. The torrent slows, the sky parts, and the rainbow colored trees shudder in the breeze. Times, they are a changin'.

One of my favorite authors eloquently remarked that “One of the things that makes a dead leaf fall to the ground is the bud of the new leaf that pushes it off the limb.”   ― Jan Karon

I feel as though the last month has been that exact process- the dead leaf of a once vibrant faith has been slowly pushed off--making way for a more mature and centered faith. I'm sure this process will happen many times over in my life--as I enter new phases and relationships. The year of academia that followed the year of emotional upheaval and death, further tore my faith--it was a gutted house. I was between the rock of the faith I had so "easily" rooted my life on, and the hard place of devoting my mind to studying a subject that solely looks to the observable. The Sunday platitudes felt hollow and my coursework offered little hope outside of this life--where was I really rooted?

The storm percolated and I was forced to make a choice-cling to the dead leaf, or let it fall and hope that I found faith somewhere. It wasn't until I finally began to read for fun--when it actually seemed like fun, rather than an academic duty, that the storm clouds broke. It was as surprising as feeling the first weighty drop of rain, the moment of clarity, as I re-read "miracles" by C.S. Lewis.  In grateful relief his words were used to unclench me from the binds of a failing faith. In the beginning of the book he remarks that what the Naturalist fails to realize is that they are using their minds to understand and claim that the physical is all there is. Exactly, this doesn't demean the study of what is observable, if anything, it adds meaning to it! The puzzle fit, the rain cleansed, the storm passed. Reconciliation and renewed faith came in with the rain of belief and behavior.  Reminding me that I don't have to know and explain everything, we all walk by faith. I can trust my Savior to come in like the rain--renewing, refreshing, redeeming.

when things change

I can't believe it has been over a month since I posted, my apologies. My writing tends to ebb and flow, and after a year of being told what to write and read, I'm a bit rusty in the discipline of writing what I want to say and feel. I still have one major hurdle--the BCBA certification exam next month.

What went on when my proverbial pen was silent? Well, September was full of resting and working--I was able to visit my undergraduate college for Alumni weekend--and was so refreshed to reconnect with professors and friends, and reminded that I'm not crazy for basing my world view off of faith, not just facts and observable phenomena.  I also began working with an agency--one I am excited to be a part of and to learn and grow in my knowledge and skills.  September also meant substituting as a paraeducator.

Now, it's October. My favorite month of the year. I come alive when autumn draws on the trees and I cant help but drink in the golden sunsets, the blustery days and the hint of pumpkin spice. As Albert Camus aptly described "Autumn is a second spring, where every leaf is a flower". My days have been full of study sessions and rest, reminding myself that each day is important and that I don't have to know or have everything figured out, all at once.

I can't help but think back to this time last year--when I was in the beginning of the intense year, ready to quit out of sheer exhaustion. I'm so grateful for that season--the year of intense study and work that I was prepared for and prepared me for this season. Looking back, it is amazing to see how guided I have been in this field and career--how friendships opened doors and experience was invaluable. I am encouraged by how clearly the way has been paved for me to be in this field, to be entrusted with the souls who offer so much--the world so needs those with special needs.

Today, as I look ahead and prepare for the exam, knowing change is coming--I am encouraged that at some point this too, will be hindsight. A year from now I'll be able cup a steaming mug of coffee and sigh with gratitude for where I've been and where I am.

Selfish Love

                This last week several things have changed: my age, my employment status, and my outlook. As I celebrated with friends, I couldn’t help by drift in to reverie about the last year, and the one to come. In the midst of sweet notes, thoughtful gifts, and meals around the city, my mind kept being drawn back to the subject of love.

                A week ago yesterday my small group had a wonderful discussion about love.  Each of us brought our unique experiences, backgrounds, and ideas about that precious four letter word. There are so many ways it is expressed and received. We all ask, “what is love” and our vulnerable hearts whisper “baby don’t hurt me, no more” based on our history and hurts.  Throughout the discussion we each shared our views of God’s love—and related the difficulties of understanding and mirroring his perfect love. In the week that has passed, my heart and mind have mulled over the morsels from that night—a stew of self-reflection, inspiration, and conviction.

                Last night, in the midst of a large group, made up of mostly married couples, I began to really realize how selfish my love has been. Looking back—reflecting on my early 20’s, I couldn’t help but see just how unlike Jesus my love has been. Instead of loving the people around me because I am loved, I loved them to be loved. I wanted affirmation, approval, acceptance. I wanted to receive, not give.  I wanted to prove that I was loveable and worthy of being known.  It has been quite the humbling 24 hours to realize this—the depth of my selfishness and pride. But I’ve also been so grateful. Grateful that I’m acknowledging this now, not when I’m married (which I’m sure I WILL have to confront, daily).

Moreover, I am retrospectively filled with gratitude for God’s perfect timing. I am so broken by my selfishness—that cries out to be affirmed, to be acknowledged, to be the center of the world. Even in the last few weeks I can see how selfish I’ve been.  I can look back to my college years and see the wake of personal heartbreak brought on by the fact that my selfish love hadn’t been reciprocated. It has been simultaneously freeing and sorrowful. By God’s grace I don’t want to continue in the pattern of getting to know people so I can be known, of asking so I can share, of giving so I can receive. I want to grow in the grace of unselfish love—that seeks to know because I am known, to share because God shared his son, to love because I am loved.

When I come Alive

In the last hour I’ve written hundreds of words. Even as I went to shut my computer, I couldn’t stop the flow of words streaming from my soul. The dam of a year of busyness, study, and stress has broken and my mind is finally processing. As I’ve sat in the shade of an umbrella, my hair dancing in the wind as my fingers fly across the keyboard, I’ve realized this is when I feel alive. Writing isn’t just something I do to share my view or opinion—it’s part of who I am. For as long as I can remember I have taken time to write—even as I child I filled journals with notes and anecdotes. I am more aware of the environment around me, the people passing, the birds soaring—when my mind is engaged in writing. In the brief moments I look around I am soaking in the sights and sounds around me. Writing is what gets me excited—sharing my hurts and hopes through the written word is the way I am wired. My thoughts leap from one scene to another—often the theme of my posts leads to others—the last was about death—this is about life. Life is so much more than my work. Even today, as my future is more clear though contracts and signatures—I am grateful that who I am is not defined by my paycheck, my degree. the title of this post came from the song that flooded my mind as I attempted to draw myself from writing—switchfoot’s “Redemption” and the chorus “I've got my hands on redemption's side, Whose scars are bigger than these doubts of mine. I'll fit all of these monstrosities inside and I'll come alive”. In reality, writing is what releases the “monstrosities inside” and is what He has called me to do. It seems audacious to say that I’m called to write, but just like when a child I’m working with has a new “first”—it’s when I feel most alive. Writing frees me to hear His voice, to listen, to share and to relate. Writing, is when I come alive.

Confronting my fear of death—August 21, 2014

               It has been one of the most freeing things for me to confront my fear of death over the last two years. At first, I was angry—how could they die? Why would you take a father from his children, a husband from his wife, a grandfather from his family, a girl from her home? Why. I wanted answers. I was afraid that I would be robbed too—that I would suffer even more, and lose more people I cared about. I didn’t want to love anyone because that meant loss. I wanted security—not just for me—but for the orphaned, the widowed, the desolate. I was fearful because for the first time in my sheltered life—I didn’t ultimately get the answer I wanted—they weren’t healed, help didn’t come soon enough, death won. I was also scared to admit it—I had just spent months supposedly living out my faith—but really, I had been losing it. I had looked at the hungry children living amongst piles of garbage and human waste, I read letters scrawled on torn paper asking me to help them get away from abusive families, I had read the status announcing death, I heard the words—he overdosed and didn’t make it. In my prideful pain I wanted answers—just like they used to come; when I had faith like a child that daddy would take care of it.  I wanted to hear that there was hope; that death didn’t win—but the pain of two months of death after death shouted above the whisper of the Cross. In my anguish I forgot that God used death to bring hope. He defeated it—ultimately. But my type-A personality wanted answers for the day—not for the future. I wanted things to be right on my terms. I didn’t want to fear poverty, cancer, brain tumors, drug overdoses, and even old age. I wanted to have security.

               Looking back—I was using God to gain security instead of trusting him and having security. Trust me, it’s a completely different mindset. Being a North American, I expected immediate answers and conclusions—google answers my questions in seconds—why didn’t God? It was a crisis of faith that arose when I shifted my focus from who God said he was to what I wanted to get from him. I had been treating God like Santa—he gave me coal and I didn’t understand that coal wasn’t a punishment—it was a gift. The lumps of hard things—death, poverty, loneliness, injustice—were coals that were to be offered up and burned—as I’ve worked through each of these areas I can now see that the coals are burning and rekindling my faith. What I thought was the death of my faith actually served as the means to growing and strengthening it. I don’t have to fear death—through death Jesus won, heals, and refines.

The Fear of failure August 15, 2014

This is the first of three posts written yesterday, I will be publishing them throughout next week.

 

                “I've done my best, and I begin to understand what is meant by 'the joy of strife'. Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing.” ― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

I don’t want to live my life in the fear of failure. I don’t want to make excuses for not trying hard things simply because they’re difficult. Yes, I have hearing loss, yes, I am short, but we all have things that we think hold us back or define us. Last night, I watched a lady four inches shorter than me lose over half her body weight. She literally completed a marathon and her trainer seemed more impressed by her than he had by any other contestant. Countless times he remarked that she never let her height be her excuse.  It’s inspiring to not play victim to your past or your physicality.

                Growing up, I think I lived in a lot of fear of failure. I didn’t want to let my parents down, or give the girls who teased me any kindling for their fiery words. I didn’t want to rely on anyone or to see their disappointment. It was exhausting. Now, as an adult, I’ve been learning to let go of things that I let define me in my past—my height, my parent’s opinions, my status.  I once had an individual tell me that because of my hearing loss, “teaching would be something that would be hard for someone like you to succeed in”. My response “if I never did anything because it was hard, I would never DO anything. I don’t want to live life that way—bitter and holed up in a room because it’s easy”. But life is not easy. There are always going to be things on our to-do list, things that upset and overwhelm; things that hinder and hurt. As I approach my birthday, I can’t help but thing of all the changes this year brought—graduate school was difficult—it hurt to have 12 hour days, busy weekends, and an empty social calendar, but, I grew. One of my good friends once wrote that a seed has to die and be planted in order to grow, and each day that process is happening in a myriad of ways in our lives.

                I started this post almost a week ago, and already, so much has changed. I had an interview and accepted a job that I applied for last Friday—one that has benefits, room to grow, and more importantly, a chance to be mentored and hone my knowledge and skills. One week ago I didn’t know if I would have health insurance, or what the fall would look like. This past week, I met and was re-acquainted with friends, I was encouraged by my church family—not only the one I attend, but by friends from other parts of the city. I’ve been realizing that I feared failure because I put too much pressure on myself to live up to expectations that only I voice and only I see the need to obtain. I’ve wanted perfection where I can only do my best—starting out in my career, relationships, fitness. I can’t be perfect—I WILL fail. I will say stupid things, make mistakes in my work, and eat my weight in chips and salsa.

                I want to say that I would be this encouraged even if all the questions from last week were still unanswered—some of them are, but by God’s grace, others have been answered. But the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know if I would—but I know why. I have failed to place my hope solely in Jesus—I am a perfect failure when it comes to faithfulness—but Jesus was perfect in my place. I don’t have to get the job, the insurance, the relationship in order to have security, hope, or love. The truth is, every time I seek those in anything but Jesus, i am putting my faith in things that will fail. But, I know the One who will not fail, and through faith in him, I don’t have to fear failure.

The Next Big Thing--August 2nd 2014

I wrote this post two weeks ago, and with the craziness of the master's exam and then a beautiful week of visiting family, I never got around to posting it. I wanted to share this tonight as I am looking ahead and excited for the open doors and mysteries in front of me.

     So today was the first day in the last 10 months that I didn’t have something I *should* be reading, writing, studying, or analyzing. I woke up and didn’t quite know what to do with myself. Last night, I received an email stating that I had passed my Master’s Exam—it was over, I can add three letters and two periods to my name—hours of work and studying all cumulated to this—reading an email on my phone while I stood in line at the bank. As relieved as I was; it all felt a little bit anticlimactic.  I mean, it is something that had been on my horizon for a while—an item on my not-at-all-exhaustive “five year plan”. But once all the work was done, I couldn’t help but think “now what?” I mean, I have a great job opportunities, and am looking forward to growing in my practical knowledge, but the last week as I stepped away from the busy pace of this year, I allowed myself to be reminded that I am more than a master. I have goals and dreams beyond academia and they are important too—just as much a part of who I am and what I want to be as a diploma.

                You see, even as I completed a milestone, I was already looking ahead to the next big thing. With two out of my three big goals accomplished; the last—one that’s somewhat out of my power to make happen, still lingers. My type-A, anti-procrastinator personality, wants to finish the list. But, life isn’t about lists and achievements, and if I try to make it that way I will always fall short—always be looking to the next big thing to give me a sense of purpose and worth. The only thing I can achieve daily is contentment. I have to choose to accept what God has given me today. The “next big thing” will get here at the perfect time—just as much as going to Kenya and getting my masters did. Looking back, I wouldn’t change how the milestones of the last few years happened—each enriched and stretched me in numerous ways. So tonight, I choose contentment. I am so blessed to be where I am, to have joy and peace, friends and family, a budding career, an eternal hope—and each of those are big things.

There's a Peace I've Come to Know...

                Yesterday, after studying several hours, I had a burst of inspiration and breathed a sigh of relief as I pealed back the plastic on a canvas, grabbed a brush, and heard the familiar pop as I opened a bottle of paint. I couldn’t help but thinking “I’m back. THIS is me”. I have a heart that yearns to create, to share, to interact with this world.  While I am so grateful for this year of school—a pricey but priceless experience of expanding my knowledge and strengthening my mind, I can’t say I’m sad to see it go. In less than 24 hours; officially 20 hours, but who’s counting…I will be done with my Master’s program. These past ten months have flown by and dragged on, all at once.

                The blues and greens swirled and blended on the canvas, much like how my heart and mind have learned to work together the last two years. Looking back, my heart was so invested in my experiences—partly due to my age—amygdala reasoning that explodes in the teen and early twenties has been taking the back seat to pre-frontal reasoning—I think, therefore I am, a la Descartes. This was a subtle shift and natural path of putting “childish ways behind me”. But over the last two years, I definitely had growing pains. It was hard to reconcile the strong emotions tied to my time in Nairobi, the many deaths that occurred there and after, the fulfillment of a dream, the letdown of coming home and not having a clear next step.  My heart was exhausted, and so my mind took over—I overanalyzed everything—friendships, decisions, and yes, my faith. My heart wanted answers to the hurt and my head said—alright, let’s get some. But as I reasoned, I waivered. I couldn’t understand how people could believe in a god who was big enough to see the pain in this world, but didn’t have the heart to fix it—at least on my timetable. The Christian platitudes pissed me off—it felt so hollow for healthy, wealthy Americans to proclaim God’s goodness when they rarely had to trust him to provide in tangible ways. I felt like a hypocrite—it hurt too much to process—so I didn’t. I decided to let my mind lead—after all, it’s always been my crutch—my clutch hitter that knocked doubt out of the park. The problem was, all my thinking perpetuated my tired fears. Admittedly, this year of school was a nice break—I had an excuse to not process and I “just didn’t have the time to read my bible, to care, to pray”—I was in grad school, for goodness sakes—there’s always an excuse for apathy.

                But I still found myself with the same questions, the same anger, the same doubt. My mind choked—it struck out when it came to batting away a years’ worth of thought patterns. By God’s grace, my heart started to speak up, to speak truth that life hurts, but there’s hope. Ironically, this year spent studying behaviorism strengthened my understanding that there is more than behavior—we are mind body and soul. It took compartmentalizing to bring me to a place where I saw my own weakness, my need for grace and humility. My heart and mind need each other. The last week, as I’ve studied intensively for my exam tomorrow morning, an old favorite song has been flooding my mind—one by Chris Tomlin titled “I Will Rise” the chorus articulates:

There’s a peace I’ve come to know,

Though my heart, my flesh, may fail,

There’s an anchor for my soul,

I can say, “it is well”.

Jesus has overcome.

And the grave, is overwhelmed.

The victory is won, He is risen from the dead.

I will rise, when he calls my name,

No more sorrow, no more pain… 

                This song has been significant for me in the past—the year after I found out about my hearing loss, when I’ve lost friends and family, and now—as I realize there is a peace I’ve come to know. My heart and flesh will fail—but there IS an anchor for my soul, and it is well.

When the Dust Settles

                I sat across from a dear friend, almost unbelieving that we were having a face-to-face conversation. Time and miles had separated us for so long. As we basked in the warm early-summer sun, sipped perspiring drinks, and talked—I found myself feeling like layers were peeling back. Layers of protection, of grief, of fear—callouses from two years of experiences and events that forever changed my life and outlook. My heart rambled and sputtered back to life as i finally allowed myself to feel, not just think. Sure, thinking and speaking can “look” like processing—but crying doesn’t mean the heart is healing. Thinking and analyzing are easier than accepting and feeling. Sure, I’ve talked about Kenya—about Kibera, cultural differences, the friends I made, the places I saw—but I think talking kept it off my heart and in my head. It’s “easy” to talk about experiences—but processing requires feeling and accepting—the realities of what I saw, understanding the bigger picture of my time, and—honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing to feel like I’m just beginning.

                But the truth is a lot happened in four months—I stepped onto Kenyan soil and lived a childhood dream; I experienced a new culture; made friends from around the world; and just when I felt like I was home—it was time to leave. Before I left, my home changed—a friend died, people moved, babies were born. I hadn’t even cleaned the red dirt off my shoes when a family member passed away, and 2012 ended with me hearing of more deaths than births. I couldn’t process it all. The dust of tragedy and change swirled around me—I didn’t know where to look or where to start. But oh, I was busy—back to work, back to serving in church, back to writing lists and checking them off—the American way. Then, this crazy year of school started and I had an even better excuse to not think or process—I was too busy analyzing behavior to admit that I needed to process.

                Right before graduation my mother asked me how I felt about it—was I excited? Feeling accomplished? Honestly, my thought was—“oh crap—now I won’t have an excuse to not think about the last year—to not have answers”. For the record—I don’t know exactly where I’ll be working (or living, for that matter) long term, I don’t have a “five year plan”.  All I know is that this year was a gift—a busy, behaviorally focused, intellectually stimulating work. As I drove home from the weekend away—refreshed by visiting old friends, college pastime places, and soaked in the warm June sunshine—I realized it was the first time in a while that I “felt like myself”. but now it’s time for real work—it’s time for me to process and start mentally, emotionally, and spiritually dusting—the corners of my heart and mind that I’ve let sit untouched for the last two years—the ones that hold fond and painful memories—sometimes in the same memory. Now that the dust has settled—it’s time to start cleaning.

"I'll Be There for You"

*clap, clap, clap clap*.

 

So, it’s been 10 years since Friends ended, but the show still makes a dent in the tv line up- the 10 seasons re-run daily on various channels. I know the story lines can have questionable morals, Joey could use some therapy, but you can’t deny the show’s impact on television.

 

How is it that a show that began 20 years ago, ran for a decade, and is a decade old, still resonates? Why do people care about Phoebe’s past? Whether Ross and Rachel will work it out? Why does a show about 6 friends ring true?

 

As I type in my pjs, relaxing on a Friday night, I found myself thinking about how art imitates life. Friends lasted because it echoed what we all crave—consistent community that “will be there for you, when the rain starts to pour…” We all want to be known and loved. The six friends stuck it out through some rough life patches—divorce, unemployment, deaths in the family, and they knew they could count on each other. We all crave that. Everyone wants to be connected and known. We don’t want to be known only on a screen—through the façade we create with facebook posts or doctored Instagram photos where we can omit our bad habits, crop the stains on our shirts, hide our imperfections. 

 

Friends depicted a community where 6 individuals were known, faults and all. Rachel was entitled and ditzy, Monica had OCD, Chandler was struggling to reconcile childhood traumas, Ross shot himself in the foot with relationships, Phoebe was quirky and too idealistic, Joey was a womanizer. But they were loved. Not that they never called each other out on these things—in fact, much of the “humor” centered on the way these faults impacted their lives and the lives of their friends. They often “told it like it was” to each other, they knew what the others struggled with but hung in there—knowing that the others were “there for [them] too”. 

Heart Springs

This is nothing profound or even really my own, just a collection of writing, photos, words that have brought the season of spring to my heart recently.



Greg Lucas and his son, Jacob
 This post by Greg Lucas
 



“Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world.”
― Virgil Kraft

Things my Kindergarteners say: "Miss Elise, do you sneeze when the flowers come out?" I replied "yes, I get stuffy" student: "....like a stuffed animal?"
One of my students spitting out a boysenberry because they thought I said poison berry.

Fieldtrips where I get paid to wander around the arboretum with a dozen adorable kiddos.
 Visiting old workplaces, time with friends, an extra evening with no class this quarter,

"His power may be capable of healing my eyes and filling in your missing pieces, but His authority may not deem it best. I'm learning to respectfully trust His authority as much as I trust His power"- Jennifer Rothschild Missing Pieces

Just Don’t Stop

                I ran (okay, honestly, walked half of) my first 5k this week. As I trudged up a long and steep incline (a 325ft. gain…) my only thought was to just not stop. I kept walking, wiping raindrops out of my eyes, and putting one foot in front of the other. I finished without stopping.

                Today, several days away, and no longer sore—I’m starting to see the application of that race for where I’m at in life. Not simply because I have to “keep walking” but because the last two years have been a lot like the course of the race—steep and difficult in the beginning—feeling like I’ll never make it through the twists and incline of re-entry, grief of so many family and friends dying, entering a crazy busy year of school, friendships changing—but I had to keep walking knowing the hill of those things wouldn’t last forever. Life has a way of leveling out—there is calm after the storm. Additionally, just like I didn’t run the race alone—I was a part of my church team—Team Taproot—I haven’t been on this journey alone either. I’ve had supportive friends, family, and mentors walking this journey with me. It’s seemed impossible, like the incline would never stop, like I would never be able to set to level ground, to be able to look back at how far I climbed—for the hard walk to be hindsight.

                But just like that hill, the hard times may be rollin’ but they don’t last forever. Today, in the middle of my two week break from school, I was having coffee with a friend and surprised myself by saying that “I can’t expect my walk (with Jesus) to look the same after what I went through (in 2012) and it shouldn’t”. Life-changes change life. Relationships ebb and flow, people and seasons change. I can’t expect what “worked” in the past to work now. You walk/run differently on an incline than you do on the plateau. Admittedly, it’s been a very dry and dark season. Life’s gotten busy, I’ve let what others think become too important to me. I’ve drifted, doubted—but I haven’t stopped walking. So as I keep walking, I change my pace, my perspective, and persevere in faith that the race of life takes a lifetime—I don’t have to run the whole way—I just can’t stop til He calls me home.

Wanting to be noticed

               It was while I was scrolling through my pinterest boards, looking for some witty quote or funny picture; something that grabbed my attention, made me laugh or think about a profound truth—that I realized the action was a glimpse of how I want to be noticed.

So much of what we do in life is to be applauded, to be noticed—to get a pat on the back, a “like”, a recognition that our presence is perceived, appreciated. I’m willing to go so far as to say that EVERYTHING we do is to be noticed—we gain or lose weight, change our hair, write a blog post, pursue that degree, date that guy, whatever it takes to share life with someone. We yearn for unity, common ground, a group, a message, a place in the world.

The sad truth is that each moment of attention is fleeting—“the Rachel” becomes a 90’s-has-been-fad, the relationship sours, the weight comes on—and we’re left back at square one. Now what—how can I grab people’s attention, how can I keep it, how do I know I am valued, when have I done enough? These questions plague and drive us. What’s the point?

As I bit into a burrito, the simply profound, and maybe ridiculous thought hit me—I am noticed and loved—Jesus knows I love chicken burritos, he knows my desires, my heart, my motivations (the good, bad, the downright ugly) and still keeps me as the apple of his eye.

I may not have the flattest abs, the letters in front of my name, the family I hope to have—but I am still loved, cherished, noticed.

“It’s not you, it’s me”—February 8, 2014

                It’s me—writing in sweats, watching soccer on a Saturday. It’s me, wondering how many more single Valentine’s days I’ll have—made brighter from the hugs of the children I work with and the annual bouquet from my Dad. I sit here writing instead of studying—I can’t clinch my fists when my heart needs to breathe. It’s me, looking back at what I could have said or done differently—knowing I grasped at straws, said stupid things, took that extra sip. It’s easier to look back and regret the smallest things that must have doomed instant connections, instead of brushing them off and knowing that “tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it”. So, it’s not you, it’s me.

                It’s not you—the ones that I look back and give a grateful sigh that a conversation or a friendship was all that I have to regret. It’s not you—the ones who sat in friendships, didn’t clarify—or couldn’t because you did even know. Naw, it’s not you from the past that I miss —everything happens for a reason.

                It’s me. Knowing that my life HAS started—it has purpose, joy, and so much love—right now. It’s me knowing that God has blessed me in numerous ways—and someday, maybe, you’ll be a part of that. It’s me, not expecting prince charming or a romantic comedy—although, let’s be honest—there will be lots of romance and comedy. I know you’ll have chinks in your armor and I’ll have jewels missing from my tiara. I know that it will be a beautiful battle to fight for unity, clarity, honesty. I know there will be days that are more comedic then romantic—where a glass of wine and a prayer are the ways to end the chaotic and clumsy day. But today, it’s me—single but satisfied that someday, maybe—it’ll be we.

When a Diagnosis Re-directs your Dreams—January 31, 2014

                I’ll never forget sitting in that doctor’s chair, my head spinning as I strained to hear the kind man in the blindingly white coat speak the words that changed my life forever—you have degenerative hearing loss. Those words changed everything. It was a pivotal moment in my life that was the end of the beginning. It was the end of a relatively “care-free” life, the end of feeling normal, facing rainy days and swimming outings without anxiety. The end of throwing my hair in a ponytail without a thought, of noticing how quiet my world is when I sleep without aids, the end of life as I knew it.

                Oh, but that day was also the beginning…

                It was the day I began to understand that life is frail, fleeting, that my body will fail. It was the beginning of accepting disability as a part of me not something that dis-ables me from life. It was the beginning of asking for help, of being an advocate for myself. It was the beginning of a new normal—one that has ended up a lot less scary than I imagined.

                That Thursday afternoon I thought a lot of my life was ending—would I have to leave Trinity Western to afford the hearing aids I would need? Would I be able to keep studying psychology—how practical is that when I wouldn’t be able to hear my clients? Who would want to date, much less marry me now—now that I for sure have less and no one seemed to want me before? Where can I go from here? What about my dreams?

                But what I’ve come to realize over the last six years is that the afternoon diagnosis wasn’t when my dreams died—it was when they were refined. I still studied psychology and two years later graduated with an honors degree. I may have dropped the Spanish minor, but I ended up with a Human Services certificate—which was the primary way the path from psychologist turned to behavior analysis—and working with children with disabilities. At the time it sure felt like the end of the world—but so many beginnings start that way. The dead leaf is pushed off to make room for the bud.

                Tonight, in the midst of my second quarter of graduate school—with 6 year anniversary of hearing aids falling on Super bowl Sunday (Go Hawks!)—I read this story and was reminded of and prompted to write about my own. What felt like the end my dream of helping others by listening was actually the beginning of discovering my passion and my mission. My dull ears allowed me to hear so many things—the encouragement of others, the reality of disability and the ability to thrive within it, and the voice of my Father who calls me and comforts me in the midst of storms and strife.

                My hearing loss may have ended life as I knew it—but the life I love now was actually made possible through it—I’m not puking rainbows and saying life is easy and beautiful with hearing loss—it’s often scary and difficult—but a life worth living is one that has valleys and mountains.  I love that I can relate to the families I work with, that I can “turn my ears off” to annoying sounds, that I can sleep like a rock. So, what seems like the end can actually be the start of a beautiful beginning.

I am not a single woman—January 14,2014

                “Whatever it is that is holding you back, you have to let go of the old patterns and replace them with a new one”—Jillian Michaels prodded a teary-eyed contestant. As I watched from my couch I was struck by two things—one, the ever increasing awareness of just how much the principles of my master’s program really are applied in real life—and two, how much Jillian’s words were applicable to me.

                It is so easy to get tunnel vision—to get in a rut of the days, the degree, the routine introduction you roll out at parties or when you run into a blast from the past. I’m in a master’s program at the UW, yeah, it’s busy…nope, still single, yeah, living with my parents is alright, yeah, definitely saving a lot of money. 

                What you choose to say when you first meet someone or are describing your current life to someone from the past, says a lot about how you define yourself.

                Those conversations echo your self-talk, self-concept, and what matters about you…”student, still single, still at home”—we all have mantras that hold us back.

                As the contestant conquered her fears, Jillian’s words encouraged me to remember I am more than the meet and greet conversations. My status is not my worth. They things I tell about myself are just about me—parts but not everything. I realized that my descriptions, and more importantly—my self-talk—were holding me back from really appreciating the gift that this season is.

                I am in the season of being a student, single, still at home—but those things are where, not who or what I am. The reasons are valid—something I, and many other twenty-somethings don’t have to feel embarrassed about or victimized by.

                Tonight, I am choosing to not be defined by where I am. I am so much more than the status of my career, my relationship, or my address. By the grace of God I am not my past and by his sovereign grace I am not defined by where I am. I am not a single woman, I’m a woman who is single, a student, a woman saved by grace. I can look ahead to the future and choose contentment today—not for where I am but whose I am.