when you just miss them

There are nights where you still long enough to feel. Long enough for the swirling to stop, the doing and going and checking items off a list and you become a human long enough to know you haven't been one for a while. The guilt when you're not doing something 'productive', the inward feel of enough but taking one more step, the awkward rush of emotion when someone or something throws you off kilter and you have no idea why. That feeling? when you quiet yourself long enough to realize how much you want to be heard, how much you want someone to look long into your eyes and whisper, "Tell me everything"
Honestly? That feels a little rare these days. There's beauty in these days, sure, but it gets lonely. Maybe it's always been a little so--but you feel it more now. Now that your sisters, your safety net you had that first year is scattered all over. Some of them are still around, but you're more of a grown up now, and they come and go, and there are still moments of connection, but more often moments when you realize that you have no idea how, when the gap seems to widen and you wonder. You wonder alternately whether you can do what you're called to and whether it even matters, this calling that is not leadership and seems so blurry sometime. You get annoyed with a friend who seems to see you as ahead, as the one with the answers to homework and all of her ducks in a row, and you wonder if you are truly seen anymore. You wonder if anyone is still keyed in to who you are and how you're feeling and the ways you're growing. You wonder who will remind you who you are if and when you forget.
Thing is? That heart squeeze, it's just a feeling, but it's valid. You were the baby for a year and you mourn that, the fact that most of the people who witnessed your growth, start to finish are gone or going to be gone soon. That none of your peers lived with you, knew you all the way through. That fear that next semester, next year will always be that slow wrestling with the old demon of alone, outcast, incapable of connection. That's your biggest fear, how hard it is for you to connect sometimes and how, when it gets hard, you run. You're afraid that you're stunted, that there's something wrong with you that turns people off and makes intimacy and true quality friendships impossible. You miss them, the ones who chased fear away for a little while, the ones who calmed you and talked down your fears and just seemed to get it. You're it now for some of these girls---but sometimes you need reminding too. 

a manifesto

hey, fear?

Yeah, I see you. I’m talking to you, you little soul sucking, joy stealing bastard. I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you and with good reason. And, this? This is me putting you in your place, naming you for what you are. You once made me your home. You moved in, with your whispers, your lies, the unexplainable doubts and the nagging feeling that something was wrong, that I’m not enough, that all of this is a mistake and sooner or later the joke will be on me. The constant pressure, the lie that I had to do, do, do, in order to be anything at all. The lie I have to pour myself dry to be worthy of love. 

You know what? You’re done. No. More. I’m no home for you, and I’m tired of you and your lies. You can’t have me. I hear you—maybe I will always hear you—but I won’t listen to you anymore. Once, I let you call the shots. I allowed you to tell me what I can and can’t do, what brings me life, and all that brings me is a whole lot of tear-stained moments staring at the ceiling and wanting to be done. Guess what? If you had your way, I would never leave my room, never talk to anyone, never do anything that involved the slightest risk.

 I've been there, done that, tried that choice so many times and not once did it ever lead me toward fullest life. It tore me away from the people I needed to run to, put up a huge barrier between me and the ones I love. The nagging desire to do the right thing and the anxiety, the doubt, the perpetual feeling that nothing I did was enough—the tension, always the tension and never rest. The stakes are higher this year, too--leading a small group, becoming a teacher, loving people who are fragile and broken and breathtaking, learning ever more about how to live life in this skin.

And only now, I'm beginning to realize just how much of myself I have given to you.  I have always let you at least partially convince me that I’m not enough, that I’m going to fall and not be caught, that I’m not worthy of a life that sings, that changes at least my little corner of the world. You’ve managed to box me in, to cloud my judgment and my head and my joy. You’ve made it seem like I was forgotten, unloved, unwanted. You’ve made me believe that all I will ever do is fail, that my weaknesses and flaws are irredeemable, that He is far and I am forgotten and alone. You’ve built high walls between me and the ones who love me. You’ve made it seem like love can’t reach me wherever I am, like I’m too lost, too clueless, too tangled up in you to be saved.

You know what I say to that? I call it B. FREAKING. S. Because that's what it is, and it makes me mad that you can cause that much damage to one life, that you can screw with my head so completely. I say GET. OUT. I am not your home. You can’t have this year. You can’t have my heart, my friendships, my family. You have no claims on me, my past, my present, my future, because there is no truth in what you tempt me to believe. Yes, you feel more real than all of this at times, but you know what? You’re a liar, and a lie is nothing but the absence of truth. As long as I have my eyes on Truth—you can’t touch me. It’s only when I take my eyes off who I really am and who I belong to that you get to have your way…and yet, I’m finding even then,  even when I let go of Him, there is nothing in this life or heaven or hell that can make Him let go of me. The truth is true whether I’m looking at it or not. He has the final word, the final say, and He says enough. Because of that, because of Him, I will keep fighting you, keep casting you out over and over again until you have mind enough to stay out. Even if it takes a lifetime.  

I know who wins, and it sure as heck isn't you, bub. And this? Even when it doesn't feel like it, this is my victory song. 

when He speaks

I want to share something tonight. 
Not because I think it's particularly witty or smart or wise, but because last night was one of those times where I heard this whisper to write and I did and couldn't stop. 

I've been somewhere different than usual, a place where most roles and relationships and dynamics are months instead of years old, where I sometimes feel lost and out of place, where loneliness and my old struggle to find roots seem to sit heavy---but it is in this place that I think I'm learning to listen in a new way. 

So here's the background: I'm the elementary intern at Northview this summer, and on Thursday nights, there's this Bible study for college students that I've gone to (somewhat sporadically) during my time here. We did a study on Ephesians 2;1-10, and we had about twenty minutes to observe the passage and prepare ourselves for discussion. And, honestly, usually I really struggle with this. I get distracted by the person next to me, how intent they look, how much they're writing in their journal as I stare at my Bible and read the passage over and over, the slow process of my thoughts drifting towards whatever was important about that day and being pulled back.  And that was the case for a while--I'm not even sure what brought on the writing storm, but at one point, I thought  How would God say this passage to me--how would He speak this truth into me? and I had this urge to rewrite what I read.  Not because I think I can say it better. Not because I was particularly studious or religious or took Hebrew in college--at some points, maybe it's not even theologically sound--but only because I've never done this before, and paraphrasing brings perspective and maybe it would wake to a passage I've read countless times and a truth I desperately need to understand. Here it is--slightly edited and only half understood.  

My love, there is a darkness in you that goes deeper than you can ever fully understand. You shy from it now, but it is a darkness I know well, the muck I waded through in order to find you. You had gotten so far into it and been there for so long that you had begun to believe that you were on your own. Even as I came toward you calling your name, sending you signs and messages and people, you wandered from me, following the  voices leading you deeper and deeper into a danger that you will never fully understand. 
This problem is not unique with you--no one is innocent of this, this wandering, and yet every wandering hurts me as if yours were the only one. Think about when your dog would run away, how when you lose something, anything--a person, a pet, even a simple object---it overtakes every single part of you, and you think of nothing beside what you lost---the worry and fear and compelling need to have what was yours back where it belongs. That's only the smallest corner of what I felt for you--my heartache, my longing for you, and it's the very core of who I am. In that place, the darkness that was your home for so long, my heartbeat for you was always that fierce need to find you,  to make you alive, to bring you back home where you belonged. 
And, my child, hear this--my love was the ONLY thing that saved you, that raised you from that place and woke you to the Love that had always been yours. So often you fall into that outright lie that my love for you is because of you, that it has to do with anything other than the fact that I have claimed you as mine. I love you where you are--lost or found, in the right or in the wrong, flourishing or floundering, whether you know all the words of the song or you only pretend to, whether you look to Me or yourself or others to find your own belovedness. What brought you out into my love, into this new status and my beloved in whom I am well pleased---it has nothing to do with how loveable you are or how well you love, your own sense of direction or even your own potential (though, even then, I did see what you would become when rooted in my love)...
And now you are found, my love, but sometimes you forget that---.when you fall, you call it failing, enough to disqualify yourself from ever being used by Me and turn towards where I once found you.
 You label yourself as a mess impossible to clean, a glaring failure, someone who is irreparably, permanently lost--but this is the truth that will set you free, so hold onto it. In me, there is nothing, no one who is lost for good. There is no mistake,however glaring, however many people get hurt, that has the power to destroy.  Hear this--no kiss of death can ever withstand the irreversible promise of life. You are no longer lost or broken or forever irredeemable, because I have stopped at absolutely nothing to find you, to heal you and save you and claim you as Mine. All you had to do was call My name and stop running. . 

Ephesians 2:1-10
As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved,through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

on the question and the answer (and the huge purple elephant in the room)

I'm back in my cornfields now, and I love it. I'm realizing that sometime over the past year or so, this place, these people have become my heart-home, the place I know I can find peace and rest and belonging...and it's beautiful. I am grace filled and thankful--but at the same time, every reunion comes with the question--so how were the Philippines? And I love this question. I love the sincere desire to know, the care that question shows, especially for the people who know how worried and angsty I was about going and teaching in a classroom all day. It reminds me that we were prayed for every step of the way, and we never stepped foot anywhere without the prayers of people who loved us. It reminds me of the miracles that happened, the good work He is doing in  and through us and the people we met--but at the same time, there's only so much you can say. And, in most conversations, in most occurrences where this question is asked, it's extraordinarily difficult to give an answer that is honest enough, that covers everything that that trip was and everything in your heart that was shaken and stirred, and there the awkward unanswered questions that remain long after.

I'm finding that, for the most part, when you come back from any kind of overseas trip, your first instinct is to give answers kind of like I did the week I came back--and that is all real and good and it came from the heart. There's a certain script you follow for those dear people who ask you about your trip. You recount all of the amazing things you did and saw, the poverty and joy of the people, how content they are with how little, and the person you're talking to smiles and nods and oohs and ahhs in admiration. You talk about what you ate and how the weather was and some things you learned, and the listener nods thoughtfully, but all the while, there's a huge purple elephant in the room. That purple elephant is the manifestation of the unanswered questions, the bigger parts of the story, the regrets and the should haves and the what ifs. The work that God's doing that you don't entirely understand and the parts of the story that aren't as easily told. Well, that huge purple elephant has been pretty much sitting on my chest this week, and so I'm going to take a deep breath, shift the elephant's weight a little and tell the rest of the story, hoping to open some doors and break down a few walls and find Him in the process

Throughout the trip, I think I was lonely and reeling and refusing to allow myself to really feel much of anything. To be perfectly honest, his trip was the most homesick I've been, and a huge part of the problem was that I wasn't even sure which home to be homesick for. Belonging and roots and loneliness are kind of sore subjects these days, and I felt that in a big way over the month of January. I'm a little angry at God these days, struggling with how I seem to live out of a suitcase these days, how awkward I felt in places that were supposed to be home, how I still doubt the people who hold my heart, and this leaked into how I related to the team. I don't discount the ways God was moving---I did get to know the team better just by living with them for a month, and they are all so fun and loud and hilarious---but it was hard to connect with them in a way that felt like it mattered.
Maybe because it was a class, maybe because I was distracted and lonely, or maybe just because I believed something and chose to see only what proved that belief to be true---but I just struggled to feel connected to the rest of the team. We lived together, prayed at meals, walked to and from school together, and there WAS bonding that happened as a result of that. Every night we spent maybe thirty minutes together as a team for team time, sharing highs and lows and listening to missionaries, which was awesome--- but somehow, it didn't feel like quite enough. We were so busy. All. The. Time---with lesson planning and schoolwork and whatever service we did during the day--and by the time we got to team time, we had very little time to sit around and process everything we had seen and done. A few members shared some great stories of things they had done, some hard things they had seen, but we only had so much time. By the time I had worked up the nerve to say something, let alone figured out how to say it, we had pretty much moved on. I got to the end of the trip and realized that I had very little idea of how the trip had stretched members of the team, their stories of where they had been and where they're going, and it kind of breaks my heart.

For me, the hardest part of the trip was the last week. After I had finished my observation that Friday, settled down into my classroom and begun to believe that maybe I could actually do this. After I had taught four lessons in the first two weeks we were there and learned names and hearts and stories, and even a couple words in Tagalog. I had had conversations and gone on feedings, and I was pretty sure I was at least close to okay. I was feeling more comfortable, more competent, like I was doing something that mattered. But I was tired, lonely, spending my days surrounded by people but running on empty and not quite wanting to admit it--until two things happened that brought me face to face with what I had been running from.

I checked my email Sunday night after our second week there---again, a very full, very how-on-earth-am-I-actually-doing this? kind of week---and there was an email waiting for me from my mom saying (along with other things) that Tasha, our sweet family dog, had died the Wednesday of that crazy busy week.  And that rocked my world. I loved this dog a ridiculous amount.

It sounds cheesy and dramatic, but after Hershey died when I was in middle school, she was a reminder that it was possible to love again, that my heart could stretch enough to hold two dogs close. She was a beacon of hope after an incredibly hard winter, losing Hershey and getting thyroid cancer. Our world was rocked for a while, but we survived and Tasha brought new life, new hope into our family. But as I had been running around, doing crazy things and finding out that maybe I could do this teaching thing after all, Tasha, my sweet girl, had been spiraling downwards. Fast. She had been my anchor, my comfort, my welcome home for so long. I've wrestled with belonging and roots and loneliness, for a long time, especially as I entered college, but as long as she was around, I had someone drawing me back, someone reminding me that I'm always loved, always treasured. I loved that dog more than I ever thought I could. And now she's gone and I'm feeling her absence---how empty our house was, how the whole family and everyone I knew was out and about, going about their business in a place where they knew they belonged. I felt how empty and quiet the house felt without her bed, her crate, her nose prints on the window by the front door. The click of her fingernails on the wood floor, her quirky habits and bark, her sweet face. Honestly, I still don't know what I'm going to do without her.

As I was reeling, trying to organize myself back into something that worked, something that I could offer to pour out--I was still on a mission trip after all--I felt this tickle in my throat Monday night that had sort of been there all weekend. Tuesday morning, I woke up without a voice. I was livid. And exhausted. But mostly livid. Because, really? I lose my dog AND my voice within a few nights of each other? How is that fair, and what purpose does that achieve? I wanted so badly to teach another lesson before I left, to add to what I could share with the people back home, to further reassure myself that I could do this, that I WAS a teacher and it wasn't a fluke, and now I was out of commission. I was still in the classroom, still with the kids, but no more lessons. No more pulling activities together and reading textbooks and finding ways to make learning meaningful.  I did some small group work, and I went on another feeding and to the orphanage a few times, but I missed so much. I had a fever and a weird ache in my chest, and I spent the first half of that next week absolutely exhausted. All. The. Time. My voice came back slowly for the last two days we were in the classroom (THANK GOD), so I got to say goodbye and get on the plane home without feeling too awful. God is good and in control, and I know there was a reason behind that mess of a last week, but a part of me couldn't help feeling a little cheated, and I haven't been able to shake that feeling, that haunting question--did I do enough? Because that whole month we were there, I so did not feel like enough. I felt empty, tired, a little overwhelmed. There were so many times I crawled into my bunk and cried, because I literally had nothing left to offer. I gave what I had, but there was always more need, kids outside the gates that didn't get cups of water and a student who didn't get lunch because he asked me to remind the cook back at the compound and I didn't, and all of it haunted me. Maybe I've always struggled with that, with seeing everything that I didn't do, everything I missed out on, and everything I'm unable to offer. Even before that last week, I had felt myself wearing out, because, wow, there are needs in this world that I can't fill, problems I can't fix, people I can't seem to love well on my own. Despite all of my best efforts, there might always be someone who slips through the cracks, and sometimes, that knowledge has weight enough to crush me.

And now I'm sitting in this place I love so much, surrounded by people I love dearly, and I'm reeling a little. I'm a little puzzled, a little lonelier, a little more broken than usual. Things keep happening, and I have no idea how to process any of this. I'm not sure how to reconcile God's goodness to what's happening in my life, in my family's lives, in the lives of people I love. I'm not sure I remember how to love well or receive His love. I do know He is here and good and in control. I know He sees me and this mess is for a reason---but where's the happy ending? the new perspective, the clarity and refreshment that's supposed to come with going overseas? Where's the mission trip high, the satisfaction that comes from seeing His work firsthand? What happens now?  Finding that I AM a teacher is part of the story, but it's not all of it. This stuff is just as much a part of what happened down there--the messiness, the questions, the uncertainty--and I'm learning that trying to hide it might not be the best idea.
I'm finding that sometimes I need room to let myself not be okay, to ask the hard questions and feel the uncomfortable feelings, to realize that fullest life does not come from hiding in the shadows and pretending everything's fine. This is part of the story. It's a painful part of the story, sure, and there are no easy answers, but there is Truth that quiets my fears and my doubts and turns them away with a word if I let Him. Because brokenness cannot be healed if it's not acknowledged, and acknowledging brokenness doesn't mean hope is lost. Because I'm still here. God's still here. I am not giving up.

I am not destroyed.

I am  not abandoned.

I am not consumed.

Because this hurt, this loneliness, whatever the world this is--it doesn't define me. What defines me is that, in the midst of all this, I am His. This story deserves to be told in all of its fullness, because even in these, there is always the unexpected grace, the hints of His goodness, the deeper story that He just keeps writing. This is the way He chooses to draw me closer to Him. 

and the adventure continues

Hey friends!

So I just got home after a really, really good, much needed conversation over brunch, and I'm realizing that I'm sort of walking on holy ground. Monday night I landed back on American soil after  an incredible month in a breathtaking country that has worked its way indelibly into my heart, and this particular Thursday night, I'm just beginning to process everything I've done and seen and learned in the last few weeks, and not sure where to start. Be warned, friends--this does get long, and, actually, it's probably only the tip of the iceberg

Because here's the thing. The impossible actually happened, and I'm not really sure what to think.

My eyes were opened, lies were called out, and I'm well on my way to becoming a teacher. I'm beginning to believe that this is possible, that I'm called to teaching simply because this is where my heart is, and it's all because of these seventeen kids and their sweet teacher.

And here's another thing. If I were completely honest, I really didn't want this experience. I would never have chosen to be in a classroom of more than a few students if I had my way. Going into this trip, I saw the notion of spending time in a classroom as separate from my real calling in special education. Special ed is closely, closely tied to my testimony, my heart, my slow journey of growing into myself, making sense of my story, and is in every way my first love--and I was TICKED that I didn't get to spend my time in the special education classroom at CCS. I was insecure and angry and madly jealous that my prayer partner (an amazing, godly guy) got the chance that I didn't to experience special education in the classroom. I wouldn't trade my experience or my kids for anything now, a month later, but leading up to the trip and when we first got there. I saw my time in the classroom as a disaster to be, something that would set me up for failure and cause me to doubt even what I knew. I was coming out of a difficult placement in a kindergarten classroom and I was almost 100% convinced I would never survive in an actual classroom. So I arrived in the Philippines dreading the idea of actually teaching, scared out of my mind, and coming out of a particularly rough few months. And then I met these guys.

Aren't they beautiful?

And---how do I even describe what happened in that tiny classroom? First---I did what I was convinced I couldn't do. I taught almost every subject at least once. I spent fourteen and a half school days with these beauties in their classroom. I learned names, ages, favorite subjects, who they were and what they loved. I prayed with them before school. I taught multiple times in one day. I made posters and came up with activities and carried out my plans, asked questions and got the kids engaged. I did an impromptu art lesson one Friday (yeah, I was especially surprised by that one), gave devotions for the teachers one morning before school, did another brief devo for my class another morning, gave my testimony before the whole school--and somewhere in there I stopped believing that I could never be in the classroom full time.

 I think it started with a realization that somehow, I loved these kids immediately and fiercely with a love that didn't ever waver. However tired I was, however jet-lagged or discouraged or lost I felt, these kids breathed new life into me whenever I saw them. I was refreshed by them, and they never failed to make me smile. They were a source of energy, of constant delight and encouragement and fascination. I found life in absorbing their hearts into my own, in knowing that they were my heart and I would do just about anything for them. And then came the morning of my first lesson, and despite discouragement and frustration with myself (trying to make signs for an activity, the process of making name tags for my kids, and then taking the wrong bag to school right before my lesson started), I did it. I taught a Bible lesson on Colossians 3:23 and we discussed it and did a memorization activity (that WORKED--they totally remembered it two weeks later when they were quizzed on it!). And then they kept coming--a science lesson the next Monday that I taught in all three sixth grade classes, an English lesson the same day, a bunch of impromptu math and science lessons filling in when a teacher was running late, and then the health lesson I taught three times, which also happened to be the very lesson on which I was observed that second week AFTER I had given my testimony in chapel that morning. 

And somehow in all of that teaching that second week, in sweating in a classroom and pouring myself out and seeing these kiddos smile and respond and love me so well, I realized something incredibly important. I was literally the only one around me that believed I couldn't be a teacher. Out of my teammates, my team leaders, my students, the advising teachers at our school, not one single person looked at me as anything less than a future teacher. Actually, we all called each other Teacher (our first name), even after school hours, so I was literally Tr. Alyssa ALL THE TIME, and how do you tell the (maybe not so) little one in front of you with big eyes that you are NOT  a teacher, to stop calling you a teacher because you are NOT and will never be a teacher. It was part of who we were, the role we played in this classroom, and it was either accept it...or accept it...and this brought me to the realization that, like it or not, I no longer had a good reason to refuse the role of teacher anymore. Maybe I never did in the first place. The excuse of not good enough was completely silent under the weight of the crazy things I was doing, let alone what I believe about Jesus and how he promises to be the absolute strongest at my absolute weakest. Using my mistakes and my incompetence and utter inadequacy didn't work anymore, because no one else seemed to believe that they disqualified me. Because this weird thing happened--life went on, and people kept looking at me with love and grace in their eyes, and we just kept loving and being loved by each other. And as I continued to think and pray and teach my students, I realized that if my heart really was in this and my mistakes didn't disqualify me and I had a God and a cloud of people around me who are avidly, decisively FOR me--why the heck not teach? What was stopping me--other than myself, and who was I to stand in my own way? When have I ever been right about what I can (read: can't) do?

And then GOD got in on the act and I couldn't argue anymore. Because everywhere I looked, I saw how He promised to be strongest when I'm ready to break, how He pursues me and accepts me and uses what little I can give and somehow it is more than enough. I saw Jeremiah 29:11 over and over again--in how He's tucked people into my life who feel like home, who hold me when life feels hard when I can't stop complaining, when I don't know where home is anymore and how people keep leaving...and yet I'm never left entirely alone, and maybe my home is everywhere and nowhere on earth all at the same time because He is here,leading me home. More and more, I'm learning that truth is something I can grab onto when I feel myself falling, learning to weed out the lies that paralyze me and tell me to hide, and seeing that,more often than not, I am so wrong about the world in the best way possible.

One more story before I close: I want you all to meet Arvin. This little guy is in sixth grade, and I honest to goodness think he was my Jesus-with-skin-on for the few weeks we were there. Even before we got onto the airplane, he was pretty much the stuff of legend. Three guys from the trip (counting my prayer partner who happens to also be a special education major, as well as male) had been to the Philippines on the same trip the year before, and even before we left, I heard stories about him, how he hit and bit and didn't talk. Kind of a bully, actually, but I so wanted to meet him, and this was part of why I was so mad at first that I wasn't in a special education classroom. I prayed I would at least get the chance to meet him--and I did. Every time I was feeling afraid or insecure or inadequate, this guy would show up. For the first few days, he showed up without a uniform--apparently he stopped attending school for a few months--but the second or third day, he appeared in full uniform and he was back. He would walk up, slip his hand into mine, his arm around my waist. If I was sitting down, sometimes he would just plop down in my lap, or put a hand on my shoulder. One morning, I got to build wacky sentences with him with one of those puzzles that have the adjectives and verbs and nouns color coded. He showed up on the street outside our compound where we stayed, at the boys' basketball games, and every time I saw him, I got this indescribable feeling of peace. Seeing him was almost like God's way of winking at me, patting my shoulder, reminding me of His pride in me, that I was doing just fine. 

So here I sit, graced and flawed, so able to see and so blind all at the same time. Friends, I have so much growing to do. I'm glad I have these moments of clarity every once in a while, these revelations that wash over me and change me, these gems of truth I can hold onto--because I fall into lies so easily. Talking to a dear friend just now,  after having told her all the wonder and miracle of this trip, my realization that I can do this, I slipped almost unconsciously, almost immediately

 into lies, into jealousy and comparison and wanting someone else's story, someone else's life, and she caught me on it. Because how is that fair, wanting another story? To me, to Him--immediately after recognizing and celebrating the beauty of my own story, of this sudden realization?

Life isn't easy right now (is it ever?). I came back to loneliness, to an empty corner where there used to be a dog bed, to relationships that are confusing and hard and beautiful and redeemed all at the same time, to culture shock and jet lag and millions of questions, parts of this story that still don't make a whole lot of sense. But there's still hope. There are still safe places, moments where I can sit and breathe, alone or with others, and know I'm not alone in this story. There are places where I can see beauty where I had before only seen ashes, times I can speak into other lives knowing I've been there, and He is making all things beautiful in His time. It doesn't make sense now, but I'm finding that that was never the point anyway. The point of everything is grace. The point is truth,knowing that somehow it's all okay and I'm safe and held and beloved, and I might even be a teacher. The point is learning that I can't explain everything, accepting it as fact, and embracing the wonder of it all anyway. 

have a little faith

So it hit me either last night or this morning that this is actually happening. For better or for worse, I'm leaving the country in T minus 24 hours, and right now, all I'm hearing is have a little faith. Things are better than they were a few weeks ago. I've opened up a little, been a little bit brave, and discovered that I'm a little less alone than I sometimes believe. And I've decided a few things about these next few weeks

I've decided that I'm not going to let fear get the best of me. I've been talking about how much teaching scares me, how utterly convinced I still am that I'm going to get out there and fall flat on my face, That this trip is going to be the one that brings me to the realization that I can't do this. Yesterday, I spent a lot of time poking around Hilary Sherratt's blog thewildlove (probably one of my favorite places to find a pep talk), and in one of her posts, she writes about how the opposite of fear is not courage, but trust. The opposite of fear is opening to whatever the world has to offer, trusting that, yes, I will disappoint and be disappointed, I will wound and be wounded, but in the end I am not consumed. In the end, in failure, in weakness, in hardship and disappointment, I can only grow. So I will relax a little, knowing I'm in good hands. I'll go into these next three weeks, take them as pure gift with my defenses down, my heart open, trusting Him and my teammates and my people praying back home to carry me. I will believe that, whatever task is set in front of me, whatever challenges, whatever barriers rise up is only an opportunity to grow. I will take the wild leap of faith in believing that I can do this. I will walk into these lives, ready to learn from them, ready to absorb their hearts into my own. I will trust that what I have and who I am and what I do is enough--that He makes it so.

I've decided that I'm going to love every community I'm given for what it is rather than what I expect it to be. Going into something new, I try to compare it to what I already know, ways of loving that I'm already familiar with, and I'm finding that this, more often than not, leads to frustration and tears and the belief that I don't fit. This pattern has happened multiple times since starting college, and it takes time to learn how to relate to a community, to learn its language and how to express and receive love. Only now am I beginning to discover and celebrate the differences between the cultures of the communities I love---my family, my church family, my small group, my wing, and now my Philippines family, this group of men and women who believe that all students can learn and that education is  a cause worth dedicating our lives to. The funny thing is, I tend not to believe that I belong to these communities I'm learning to love. Left to my own devices, I seem to shy away from the rigor of figuring out that particular community. I seem to enjoy counting myself out before someone else can, wallowing in the self pity and the belief that I'm not meant to belong anywhere rather than opening myself to the messy, awkward, beauty of knowing and being known. I'm not exactly sure why yet, but I'm going to work on that this year---starting with this brand new community, the 20 something people I'll be sharing the next three weeks with. I'll learn how to love them well, how to both trust them with myself  and be a safe place for their hearts. I'll learn to value this group of people, their idiosyncrasies and sense of humor, their hearts and stories for what they are and how God chooses to work in and through us.

I think the biggest thing I've decided is that I'm going to learn to see through the lens of His goodness. Because the world warps when I try to figure out the world based on my own feelings and perceptions. Because I am the one with emotions that rage and fears that whisper, and given enough time with these voices, I am bound to begin mistaking them for truth. That I am what I do, that my process isn't good enough, that I don't belong. That loneliness, rather than being a longing for community, is proof that I am alone. That I have to earn what I want and too bad when I come up short. So this year, I will make a concentrated effort to cling to truth, to the Cross that I've always believed and often forget, to the truth that doesn't change and has a way of shifting everything else back into perspective. Because He's the one I'm following, I don't have to look like the people I'm walking with. My story is not their stories. My story is not your story. It is tied together with your story, and if we put them together, the picture of His goodness comes into focus just a little, but it doesn't make the whole story. So this year, I'm going to grab tight to His hands, hang on tight to every bit of truth I can glean from Him. I'm going to lean into His word, His story, what He says about me and trust it to be enough. And when I doubt, when I fear, when the truth warps a little, I'm going to quiet myself enough to hear Him say "Talk to me."

Instead of closing with my usual flippant 'Here goes nothing' this morning, clinging to the promise that nothing is ever nothing and nothing is ever wasted, I'm going to try something new. Instead of closing with my words, my expectations, I'll close with His expectations, His words over us as we jump in to this new year...

"Behold, I will do something new,
         Now it will spring forth;
         Will you not be aware of it?
         I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
         Rivers in the desert.

20“The beasts of the field will glorify Me,
         The jackals and the ostriches,
         Because I have given waters in the wilderness
         And rivers in the desert,
         To give drink to My chosen people

SO. Here goes something...whether we see it or not. 

some thoughts on leaving the country

So. In a week, I'm flying across half the world with a merry band of future teachers to teach in the Philippines for three weeks.

And you ask if I'm ready?

Right now, not exactly. Right now, I'm tired and lonely and struggling to connect with the community I've spent a lifetime trying to build. Right now, there's a lot of things that remain unsaid, a lot of loneliness and fear and trying to control emotions that rage, trying to believe that God is always enough. I'm feeling kind of crabby and sulky and not at all strong enough for the stretching that will happen in a week and counting.

Before we left for break, there was a point where, thinking maybe it would be better on all accounts, I cried to my roommate, "What if I just didn't go?" Because fear is a bully and it paralyzes and it makes it look like I'm setting myself up to fail. It reminds me that I'm tired and weak and struggling more than I care to admit. It reminds me of the expectations I had for myself coming home and how I've failed--to not eat too much and to exercise and have good conversations with family and friends, to prepare myself for what lies ahead. It tells me that maybe I'm not cut out for this after all; maybe I won't be able to meet the expectations set for me. It reminds me that I'm lonely and forgetting how to connect, that maybe I'm at fault for not being honest about what's happening in  my heart and mind.

That Christmas and New Year's and the festivities that are designed to remind me of my many blessings are weighing heavy this year. That I don't particularly like this season I'm in and I don't want to be here, and that this is not the mindset I'm supposed to have just before a missions trip.

 So, yes,, this fear seems to get the best of me these days---but it also totally misses the whole idea of Christmas that is my hope, my anchor. Especially these days---Immanuel. God with us. The hope in Christmas, in this God I cling to these days, is that He's coming and has come and is here, that He loves us, in all of our ache and grotesqueness, enough to become a part of it, enough to enter into the messy, the awkward, the heartache that I've been trying to hide. He loves me in a way that makes it okay to admit in the midst of this holiday season that, actually, I'm not. Maybe it's okay to not be okay--because maybe Christmas gives us that kind of freedom. Maybe Christmas--the idea of our great God folding himself into the shape of a human being who would laugh and cry and poop and sweat and shoulder every battle that I face---means that the joy of Christmas came from a weary world that rejoiced at the coming of a Savior it desperately needed. The world's saving grace came when it was still aching and confused and caught in its own mess. God with us, entering into our mess, our fractured hearts and lives, making all things new. It's Him, it's this belief in this God-man, this Immanuel, that frees me to honesty, even as I travel to a foreign country to pour myself out, love that I don't have on my own.
It is He who makes me brave.

Pray for this trip, friends. Pray for courage and comfort and the ability to hear His voice, to receive and speak truth. For unity among the team and the capacity to love in a way that surpasses our own ability. Pray for the ability to love the people we meet well, for the opportunity to pour into a life. For the stamina and energy and faith we need to be shaped into the honest-to-goodness real life teachers we are becoming...that we would not become so wrapped up in the tasks at hand that we would forget to embrace the hearts we will meet. That we would not be too wrapped up in ourselves to look to Him. We cannot and do not do this alone, friends--thank you for that. Thank you for entering into this work God is doing--and please know that every prayer counts. All of you have given something, and know that none of it is wasted. Every click, every view, every word of encouragement, every donation...It's Him stirring, reminders that He is here and working even now.

Our merry band of Taylor University education majors bound for the Philippines...Not long now!