A lifetime of wisdom- looking back to look ahead. January 6, 2015

    Over the last few weeks, since passing my certification exam (hurrah!!) I’ve been able to take time to find more balance, more of a healthy rhythm of rest and work. On December 31^st, I took a day to head to Tacoma—exploring new places is something that rejuvenates and refocuses me. I did the cursory reflection of 2014, but I also wanted to look ahead—I knew that after this insanely academic year, I needed to fight for balance. I’m not much of a resolution, more of a thematic thinker when it comes to new seasons and goals. Earlier in the week I had read the book of Philippians and it was one of those sweet times where the words leapt off the page. Paul’s letter was so fitting for this new season of no school and new jobs. I am definitely extroverted, and 2014 was a weird year of focusing on school and work and studying—not much time for authentic relationship building and growing. Paul calls the church to “look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others” and to “shine as lights”. This past Sunday I co-led my first girls group for my church, ages 9-13. Each of those girls are so unique and gifted, and I can’t wait to see how they grow—I am humbled to be a part of it.

Another theme in Paul’s letter to the people Phillipi is the that of holding onto  and standing firm in the faith. He calls them to hold fast to the word of life, hold true to what has been obtained, and to stand firm in the Lord. Admittedly, my Bible was pretty dust covered last year—thousands of pages of textbooks and articles filled my reading and calendar. Again, my hope is to find balance this year in my reading habits.

 The last theme that struck me in Paul’s letter, is how he consistently reminds them that it is God who works in them.  He calls them to make their faith your own because He made you His own, rejoice in the Lord always, think about what is true, noble, good, and remember that you can do ALL through Christ who strengthens you, for God supplies every need according to his riches in glory in Christ. 

Those are things I want to center life on this year—remembering that it is God who works in me, to will and to work for His good pleasure. It is often in hindsight that I see how he has worked and brought me to where I am today. In light of that, I’ve also been reading a lot of biographies lately—I am so drawn to learning about others’ lives—what made them tick? What were pivotal situations in their life? Who impacted them and changed them?  

On that note, I recently finished “The Story of My Life” by Helen Keller. Initially, I was embarrassed to admit that—afraid of the “oh that’s cute, of course you would like her—with your hearing loss and all” which is a backhanded dis to an incredible lady. Helen Keller has become somewhat of a punchline in recent years, which is so unfortunate, disrespectful, and does such a disservice to who she was and what she accomplished. She didn’t let her disability, caused by an illness in infancy, shrink her life—she learned to speak, she loved to row and ride horses! What was so remarkable to me was the fact that her writing contains so many visual descriptions—something she partly credits to her teacher, Anne Sullivan, who acted like a visual narrator. In every situation she would describe not just what was spoken; but the manner, the setting, the environment. She went to college, and wrote with a confidence that recognized she was unique and had a voice that needed to be heard.  I was astonished by her acceptance and lack of bitterness in her writing—she obviously did have pains, but as she articulated “…my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then come hope with a smile and whispers, “There is joy in self-forgetfulness” so I try to make the light in others’ eyes my sun, the music in others’ ears my symphony, the smile on others’ lips my happiness” (p. 142). Helen Keller is a model of living “above the circumstances, not under them”.



There is so much wisdom to be gleaned from the lives before and around me. I hope that this year I continue to grow in my love of God and others.

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.