enough

There's a journal entry I wrote during my first overseas mission trip to Haiti junior year of high school, and one phrase that's been jumping around in my mind--the idea that at the core of who I am, I am enough.

Junior year was rough. I had no idea where I stood with God---one moment I was worshiping and serving and loving God with everything I had and another I was crying on my bed, wondering why the Word seemed so empty, why it was so hard to see myself in those Jesus loved so dearly. Wondering if maybe I wasn't cut out for this whole Jesus thing, if I was letting God down somehow, if I would be cast in the fire after all. I so wanted to be a woman of great faith. I tried multiple versions of the Bible, devotionals, worship songs and books and solitary walks, and though I never stopped believing the Gospel, I wondered if I was missing something somehow. That if I believed hard enough or prayed the right prayer or had a really good devotion time, I would bear the fruit that everyone else seemed to have. I was frustrated, confused, zealous, and I spent a lot of high school stepping on a lot of toes, trying to force my faith to grow. And so, after struggling through another year of highs and lows, on June 20, 2012, a plane touched down in Archaie, Haiti, where everything changed. This shift mostly happened one particularly frustrating afternoon where I wondered if I could do anything right. I was tired and hot and completely in over my head. The language barrier, the flood of sights and sounds and smells were completely contrary to what I knew, and, again, I hid in my room, doubted whether I was even qualified for a simple mission trip. But that night, long after everyone else was asleep, I had an unforgettable conversation with a woman who has become a huge encouragement and dear friend over the past few years. To this day, I wonder at how well she loved me, how deeply I was known that night. Because of her, I saw myself through God's eyes. She planted the thought that continues to amaze me to this day---that in all the chaos, the questions, the insecurity, though I failed to see how God was working, He was. And he is, and he will be until all this is over. God shows up in the ways that He wires us differently, the ways of loving that come most naturally to us. He was working in the very things that I despised, that which made me different, awkward in my own skin. My round glasses, my lisp, my well insulated six pack. How, to this day, I sometimes feel one step behind everyone else. It takes me longer to run a mile, figure out technology, wrap a present, paint a wall, run a mile, climb a mountain. My entire life, I have felt different, slower somehow--like I was just one step behind everyone else.  January will mark six years since I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer when, though my life was never in danger, I lost any chance I thought I had had of ever being normal.  I missed a good chunk of school that year. While other kids were passing notes and comparing crushes, I was in and out of the hospital, trying to rid my lymph nodes of whatever cancer remained. I lost my voice for a few months, along with the first and only lead role in a musical I've ever won. (Still a little sore about that one...) But, gosh, guys---when I look back, God was there. The thyroid cancer scare in middle school brought me, a mousy twelve year old girl who spent most of her time on the sidelines, smack dab into a community of people who actually knew my name, who cared more than I had thought I was worth. It got me thinking about eternity, about the God I already believed in but now realized that I needed desperately. This weakness I have--this slowness, this awkwardness in my own skin--might actually be what God chooses to work through. He is not driven away by what I say or don't say, what I do or don't do. He loves me no less today than He did on the cross. I cannot earn his love and I cannot scare Him away. Whether I do more harm or more good on any given day, whether I spend my day completely tuned into His presence or get completely caught up in my own interests  has no bearing whatsoever on his love for me. For us. For you. God is not fazed by the scary places of our hearts. He does not give up on us. Because of grace, because of Jesus, because of our mustard seed of trust, we find that He is well pleased with us, and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. And that...that is a truth I'll spend my whole life trying to wrap my head around. 

musing...

So...this is it. I'm going to try this whole blogging thing again. It feels a little riskier than before with the new people I'm meeting (hi friends!) and those I left back home who might worry a little over some things that might come out of my mouth once in a while. For everyone's sanity, let me say up front that at the core of everything, I really AM okay, because it turns out that God is always better than I think He is and He has the victory. More and more, I am learning that I am more loved, more graced, more beautiful than I think, and Jesus is keeping me sane even when I feel like I'm no use whatsoever to Him. Above all else, my story is that of redemption, of an awkward girl with round glasses, a lisp, and no coordination whatsoever learning to love and be loved, know and be known, and eventually reaching out to those on the outskirts to pull them in, too. That said, I still have a lot of room to grow, a lot of questions and aches and pains I'm still trying to sort out, a butt-load of character development God is doing--but that is what I want to share on this blog this year. I want to practice intentional vulnerability--something I thought I understood before I moved to Indiana, but is so much harder now. I'm living with people I've known for a handful of months now, men and women who I am rapidly growing to love, and I never know how much to share or not share, what questions to ask, how to act. This whole community thing--the possibility of knowing and being known deeply--both exhilarates and terrifies me. Because right now, it's hard. I can do small talk. I can do laughter and fun and maybe a conversation that someone else starts, but I have so much trouble admitting I need help, entering into conversations that may be more difficult, that require something more from the other. I'm working on it. I'm trying to be brave, but the process is so much slower lately than I would like. So I've decided that this will be just one more step, me trying to push myself just that much more though I'm not sure what that might mean. But so many people seem to have blogs lately that have given me a window into who they are...and now I think I want to try to do the same. Some of it is weird or goofy or depressing. Sometimes I say too much. Sometimes I forget to tell parts of the story or don't explain enough or ramble on forever, but I am here and that has to count for something.

aching and wondering

There's a question that's been bouncing around in my head for a really long time now, and it's beginning to bother me. I know God is better, more loving, stronger, ultimately more satisfying than any person can be, and I've seen his faithfulness and tasted his goodness...but doesn't he get how hard it is to love Him sometimes?  I can see other people, be around them, study with them, go to dinner with them, but when I come back to my room, the glow fades and I feel completely empty, and for some reason, Bible time doesn't help. My journal entries go in circles and I don't even know where to begin reading the Word or if I even want to. Why do I have so much trouble spending time with the only One who actually satisfies? Or asking for help or even finding words to explain what the heck is going on in my head. It just doesn't seem fair that I can't be genuinely satisfied by the only thing that really satisfies because I can't see Him. I need people. Or I need Jesus to be here physically, to hear His voice and feel His arms. I need him to be the one to tell me that I'm supposed to be here, that he has a place for me in this place full of new people and new traditions and new experiences, that one day I'll belong. I need to be known here,. Lord,  I need you to not be so damn invisible. I need to know that You are enough...because right now I'm kind of doubting it. Why can't I see you, Lord? Even just a little...Why do I want the people around me more than I want You? Why am I so afraid of what's happening in my own head?
Is my faith really that weak?
I'm almost always afraid that maybe I don't belong here after all. I've grown to love these people that I'm with every day, the laughter and wisdom and worship this place offers me, but I wonder if I can actually do this. Everyone seems to have these relationships where they belong and are known and loved and it seems like they're all chugging along, doing better somehow because they have each other. What if I just can't be known like that? What if I'm just not capable of enjoying life fully? Does that makes me a pessimist or depressed or what? Maybe I'm just missing something, the one piece of knowledge that makes everything OK again. I don't know. I know God is good. I've seen it in the past, and I guess waking up this morning is another sign that He has a plan...but I'm tired, I'm aching for what seems like no good reason, and I have no idea what this afternoon, let alone this week holds or where the heck God fits into all this. I guess now I'm just waiting for answers. And--maybe-- I still think I believe redemption is out there somewhere. 

new life, new blog

Here's a crazy fact of life...I'm in college now!! And I figured, as long as I'm relocating my actual life, I might as well find a new blog home as well. So I'm blogging via Bloglovin on whatever pops into my head. Should be fun :)

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resting, resting

I'm back. After another trimester of craziness and late nights and early mornings, of thinking there's no possible way of making it through tests and homework and presentations and somehow doing it anyway. Hitting rock bottom time and time again, crawling into bed exhausted and crying and having to do it all over again tomorrow. But I made it. Exams are over. My last round of finals before I pack off and head to who knows where to do who knows what. And it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was. I thought my social life would peter out and die, but there were always lunches with friends and small group and midweek youth group. There was always time for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and when I did fall, there was always someone there to catch me, to set me back on my feet and remind me that I am still his beloved. It's funny. Before this trimester, I had never allowed myself to fail. I have always needed to make up for any bad grades I got, have an organized schedule for when I go where, so somehow, somewhere I'll make up for what I couldn't do. But now---I messed up this trimester. I made mistakes I've never let myself make before. I turned things in late, missed meetings, completely gave up on those leadership meetings for youth group...and this was all in the first two weeks of the trimester. But the world didn't end. I survived, and I'm realizing that my success doesn't define me. I still think it does. I still ask myself---if I fail at this conversation, this test, this homework assignment, who will I be? And it's never a good situation to be in, but sometimes it drives me to do well, and other times it makes me despair of everything I've ever tried to do. On Wednesday at youth group (when I was SUPPOSED to be studying for finals!)  we talked about grace. At the end of the night, we were each given a note card with a string attached. The note card represented God's grace, and the string was whatever 'price tag' we put on ourselves in order to earn God. When we were ready, we were told to get up, tear the string off, and throw it away. I knew instantly what my 'string' was---this drive to do everything right, to never do anything to let my God, myself or my people down. I want to be right, to right, think right, and set the world right, which is exhausting. And impossible. But sometimes I think that's the only way I can be loved by God, which sounds awful when I say it out loud. I have these impossible expectations for myself, and I keep thinking that that's a good thing, the only way I can...not fail. Sometimes that's what keeps me going, but it's also what makes me believe those lies I've been fighting off ever since I can remember. Those expectations are what drive me deeper into myself, away from the Savior and the family and friends who can tell me that I'm wrong. That grace is Jesus giving me what I can't give myself---confidence in Him, peace, a secure, unchanging identity of the one He loves. That no matter what I do or don't do, think or don't think, say or don't say, I am loved by the one who gave himself up for us. I'm learning that I have to chant this truth to myself, the words that I've heard so many times from others, and apply them to myself. That's where rest and confidence comes from--the knowledge that I am His, and that He does his best work through people who are realizing that they can't save themselves. 

Joining in FMF at http://lisajobaker.com/

C'mon over and check it out :)

am I in love with this life?

The snow this morning, waking up to no school when I was sure there would be. The most perfectly timed snow day in the world. The retreat this weekend, and the imperfections of my youth group and His whole family all tied together somehow with the blood of the Lamb. How my sister and I go back and forth with the easiness of fifteen years of sharing the same life. How I see old faces mixed together with new ones and this settling into a routine that feels scary at first, but I know will soon feel like home. These friends, this family, and the God who walked by my side in the halls every morning, from the glee of first hour to the desperation of fifth, of thinking I can't possibly do this, of not knowing quite where I fit in yet. How I'm still alive, still breathing and looking to bed and Bible and tomorrow. How he promises to not let me fall. In the voices of my teachers, how they do care, each of them, in their own way and their own time. How he loves me with every breath, and how he died for me in the dark. And how morning always comes, and I'm reminded that faith is for me. Advent is for me. The cross is for me, Immanuel, God with me. And then, knowing I'm safe with Him, getting to tell others the best I can, and still be safe in His arms. The purpose of living towards the kingdom, but also the quiet hours. My heart beating, this blood pumping through my veins is God telling me that he cares for me. This expectation, this breathlessness that knows the best is yet to come, and is still sort of already here. There's something terribly wrong with this world, but He is here and making all things new, and that's a promise.