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.