A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Friends,

Thanksgiving is approaching, and it's really the perfect time for it, because my heart needs to take a turn back toward gratitude.

There's a lot I am justifiably upset about. There are letters and articles and blog posts I want to write and to spread to people that need to hear them. And there are pages and pages of personal stories and ideas and emotions left unwritten from the past several months. 

But for right now, I am fostering thanksgiving in my heart.

This is my prayer.

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Thank you, Jesus, for...

Keeping my heart soft, pliable, open, humble...though I feel it wanting to harden, though bitterness and pride feel easier, though anger feels empowering. Thank you for allowing me to recognize the battle, and see love is the only path to freedom, hope, change.

The ability to teach, love, greet, smile, hug, and care for little ones who You love so dearly.

Preparing me well for this stage of my life through my past experiences.

Roommate friends who are open and available to listen, speak into my life, go to church with me, and spend time with me lying around watching Netflix or out on the town.

A boyfriend who loves me so well even from 200 miles away, whose love language quickly became texting with emojis, and who seeks after Your heart while seeking after my own.

A comfortable, welcoming home, hot showers, comfy bed, the money to buy good food at Trader Joe's, a healthy body, and the convenience of a 20-minute commute.

A loving family who takes care of me and checks in with me from afar.

Weekends and holidays to sleep in and spend time with people I love.

The city of Indianapolis and its heart.

Coffee.

Art, music, literature, innovation, community.

Redeemer Presbyterian Church.

Seasons, babies, colors, new life.

Opportunities for growth, renewal, second chances.

Rest.

The promise of one day being fully satisfied in the presence of Your glory and beauty.

Oh Jesus, thank you for all these things and more. I am overwhelmed by your grace and love for me that constantly extends toward me even when I turn away from it. Help me to love as you have loved me.

Amen.

Words in the Waiting

I need to write as much as I need sleep and food and coffee and people. I forget that. And sometimes I think I need to write words for people to read. We need each others' stories.

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My transition from Mexico to Chicago to Indy has been a confusing one, characterized by a full range of emotions--anger, grief, disappointment, anxiety to joy, hope, excitement, peace--sometimes all within a day. Some of it came from my own life experiences, some from digging into some of the issues in our world. I didn't know how to write about them. I still don't. It was too much. 

Throughout this roller coaster, I've clung to prayer. And I’ve started paying closer attention to my specific prayers and longings and the way God responds. It has been incredible to pore over written prayers in my journal and see with complete clarity how God has answered.

I prayed to be surprised. I prayed for my next romantic relationship to stem from friendship. I prayed for God to restore me and my view of relationships. His answer was, “Here you go. You’re ready for this now.” I could not write a better story than the story He’s begun to write for Erick and me. 

But Erick wasn’t in my plan. Nor was the waiting, the disappointment, the disillusionment involved in this move and in searching for a job in Indy.

Many of my prayers have not been answered yet. It’s hard to be here right now, waiting and wondering when the answers will come. I’m fighting the urge to look for jobs in Illinois. I’m fighting my impatience, my anxiety, my fear that I’ve yet again made the “wrong” decision, that this was a mistake. The truth is, I’m still looking for ways out. Scheming, contemplating, wrestling with my commitment to be in this place. Wondering if it was always just meant to be a place I passed through every now and again, not my home.

I’m trying to trust the timing of all that’s happening. I know it will get better. I know my faith is growing. I know it was stupid to think these first two and a half weeks here would be one big party; that everyone I know here would drop what they’re doing because I’m here now; that a full-time job I want would naturally fall into my lap.

If I’ve learned anything in the past few weeks, it’s that I often can’t see what I need. Doors shut that I thought were meant for me to walk through, and I question, take for granted, or almost throw away the blessings He hands to me. I am often so blind. 

So I’m leaning into Truth. I’m leaning into the promises of the One who is sovereign over all. The One who knows what I need. I’m rereading my tattoos. Te doy gracia. I give you grace. Poco a poco. Little by little.

God is good. He is faithful. He gives and gives and gives of his abundant love. I believe it. And I hope in the midst of whatever storm you’re in, you believe it too.

I Choose Indy.

If you know me well at all, you know decisions are incredibly difficult for me. Case in point: A friend applauded me for being more decisive the last time I saw her--after seeing me do things like choose an item off a restaurant menu in the time a normal human might.

Well, I'm improving, I guess. 

But still, decisions often seem like the enemy. The Land of Possibility is freedom, and decision...decision is a trap.

I prefer happily resting in the initial knowledge that there is a full menu of delicious food. That there are thousands of cities to move to, jobs to apply for, friends to make, men to date. While at times this all makes me anxious, it paradoxically produces peace at those times I feel I must make a decision. So I stay in this dreamland, relishing in the fact that I have the world at my fingertips.

Yet, we must make decisions. Hundreds everyday. It's inevitable. The little ones seem hard enough, but God's been forcing me to make a lot of big ones in the last several years. He's helping me through, but the anxiety is still there. The fear I've made wrong decisions, that I'm making wrong decisions, that I will make wrong decisions. It's real and it's difficult. But learning I can trust the Spirit's prompting, and seeing God bless and work through my decisions has made the journey a little easier, a little less scary. 

Open doors also make the journey easier. Open doors are, to me, extravagant forms of grace and kindness. And sometimes God opens doors to places He planted in our hearts long ago. In those moments, you just kind of know. You worry and dwell on it for way too long after that initial excitement. You still think you might be making the wrong decision, and you still long for other places. But after weeks of that, you recognize it's a door you were meant to walk through. And that it's good. And you remember God wants to give you good things. So you say "yes," and after your "yes," you find even more freedom than in your Land of Possibility Vacation Home.

This is my story of saying "yes" to Indianapolis, of saying "yes" to living with a dear friend and kindred spirit. 

As I continue to kick and scream over other decisions I need to make, I'm remembering the relief and freedom I felt in saying "yes" to Indy. I'm remembering that this decision and others I make are not traps, but rather avenues of possibility and promise. They have the ability to bring forth vision, direction, clarity, and joy. When we decide something, we know we are walking towards something that holds within it the possibilities that we have or haven't yet dreamed of in the Land of Possibility. We don't just dream we're going somewhere; we know we're going somewhere. And we know that in going somewhere, we will keep growing, and changing, and learning.

I think the most incredible thing is this: In decision, we have the ability to bring about life--community, implemented ideas, art, projects, movement, friendship, marriage, babies, change. All needed in this world. All made possible through "yeses" and "nos" and putting one foot in front of the other and choosing good things.

Agua

Guzzling water yesterday, I was brought back to the basics.

God is Love. Spirit is Breath.

Jesus is Water. 

He is also the Vine, the Bread, the Wine.

Oh yes. He meets us in the physical. Our minds can hold this better. 

If creation speaks His name, then surely a Creator would also speak His name in terms of His creation.

He wants to be known. 

I'm your living water. I'm what you thirst for, I'm what flushes impurities, I'm what cleanses, I'm what heals, I'm what you crave. I'm what you need. And remember? Water gives way to breath, and my Spirit is Breath.

And Breath gives way to Life. Life is my other name. Stay attached to me. You, the branch, need a Vine. And attached to the Vine, you will bear fruit--love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

And my physical body that was broken and poured out for you--more spiritual, relational, and physical suffering than you could know--that's the Bread you eat and the Wine you drink. I know you suffer now and I can't bear for you to suffer more, so rejoice, because, the unbearable suffering? It's finished. And I'm alive and just as real as the bread and wine on your table. Dine and commune with your friends, family, and neighbors, remembering my sacrifice and my resurrection is cause for celebration. Rejoice in it, for it was out of love, and I am Love. Rejoice in it, for you now have hope, and I am Hope. Rejoice in it, for it was to bring about peace, and I am Peace.

And if I am Water and if I am Wine and if I am Bread and if I am Breath, then surely I'm within each one of you. And surely you bear my image. And surely you are all connected, for you are my children.

Remember there are no dividing lines. Remember I came to overthrow systems in place. Remember caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you is the only pure and genuine religion in my sight. (James 1:27) Remember I came to bring spiritual sight to the blind. Remember I came to invite, to include. Remember I am not only the Jesus you read about in the gospels, but I am the Voice that speaks new, life-giving words to your discouraged, restless, searching, suffering soul.

Words like Water.

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(Note: All of this imagery is from the gospels. Please excuse my lack of citations!)

We've been watching messages from Flat Irons Community Church in Colorado every Sunday morning, and I love them. If you want to watch sometime, here are the links to a couple of my favorite messages. The message in the first link partially inspired this post.

http://www.flatironschurch.com/messages/_video/index2.php?vn=121528864&sn=Mystery&md=02.28.15

http://www.flatironschurch.com/messages/_video/index2.php?vn=117637090&sn=Basic%20Training&md=01.17.15

Honeymoon Over.

I was fully aware I was in the honeymoon stage; I've experienced it before in my travels. For the first few weeks, my senses were heightened, my soul filled, my mind expanded, and my body felt more healthy and alive. Everything was sunshine and butterflies and guacamole.

Upon my arrival, I saw a healthier version of myself--a more fully alive version biking down the streets of my new neighborhood. Then, I watched as all of it was stolen from me literally overnight.

Honeymoon over.

This case of Strep was probably the nastiest sickness I've ever experienced apart from the pain and sickness surrounding my kidney stone just this past November. Two antibiotics couldn't kill it and sometimes left me feeling worse. And just as I thought it was going away, it came back in the form of tonsillitis--the same week my family arrived and the States kindly gifted its winter weather to Guadalajara.

I'm not sure how I managed to play tour guide, tourist, translator, and teacher this week, but I made it. 

I lie here now, still trying to recover, trying to process, trying to glean some meaning, truth, hope, and sense of stability and purpose after a very difficult couple weeks, all the while hoping the second half of this month will be more gentle to me.

Day by day, I'm feeling better, now allowing my body to heal naturally, without medication, and thanking God that it is--not magically overnight, but slowly, steadily.

I'm still learning, "slow and steady." I'm still learning, "one day at a time," "one step at a time," and "trust me."

At this time, I don't feel like I have answers to any of my questions, or any insightful thoughts or wisdom to share. I don't know what tomorrow holds, nor what will happen and where I'll go after this internship in Mexico is over in just a couple months. But as I keep going, through transitions and "honeymoons" and disappointments and unmet desires, I'm learning this simple truth:

I'll be okay.

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I read this today and I hope it encourages you as it did me:

"Christ is building His kingdom with earth's broken things. Men want only the strong, the successful, the victorious, the unbroken, in building their kingdoms; but God is the God of the unsuccessful, of those who have failed. Heaven is filling with earth's broken lives, and there is no bruised reed that Christ cannot take and restore to glorious blessedness and beauty. He can take the life crushed by pain or sorrow and make it into a harp whose music shall be all praise. He can lift earth's saddest failure up to heaven's glory." -J.R. Miller

Worth It

I’m a creative. I see, I know, I believe I’m an artist. But diving into art—writing, singing, playing music, painting, dancing, learning the Spanish language, creating lesson plans—takes effort. It takes discipline. It takes dedication. It takes belief that my art is worth something.

I want everything to be easy, quick, effortless. I am a product of this age of distraction and instant gratification. I am a millennial. And I know full well I’m not alone. I want a lesson plan to take two seconds so I can go back to watching Netflix; I want to be fluent in Spanish but when I can’t seem to spit out even a sentence to Ethelvina, I retreat to my room and browse Facebook; I put down my guitar when I can’t get a song to sound right and I haven't unpacked my watercolors, even though there have been times I've wanted to paint. 

My free time often feels wasted. I love it, dearly, but it often doesn’t reflect what I value, or at least it doesn’t show that I believe my artistic interests and pursuits are worth much.

The word “freedom” continues to bounce around in my head, and one thing I’m beginning to realize is that true freedom flows out of a life of discipline, intention, effort, and dedication. Experiencing real freedom doesn’t happen when you do whatever you feel like doing, but when you choose to do the things that are difficult but worth something to your soul.

The things I listed in the first paragraph—those are some of my soul-filled activities. And if we’re choosing to do soul-filled activities, if we begin pouring our lives into those soul-filled activities, then we’re doing something that matters to us. And if we’re doing something that matters to us, then I’m pretty sure we’re doing something that could matter to the world around us.

Why is this so difficult?

It’s because we exchange faith for fear.

We don’t really believe our artistic endeavors can influence, can inspire, can change us, can serve others. And we give up too fast, right before we got it—right before the right Spanish word comes to us, right before we nail that chorus, right before we get the Salsa steps down, right before that brilliant idea for a lesson activity pops into our head. We give up. We say we can’t. We say it doesn’t matter. We watch Netflix and we compare ourselves to our friends on Facebook who are doing things better than we can, or so we convince ourselves. We glare enviously at the person who is doing that thing we so desperately want to do too and we declare ourselves incapable, not talented, insignificant. We say the words “never” and “I can’t” and “Who cares?” and all those other poisonous words that slowly kill our souls. And then our beaten souls wander around dejected instead of emanating life and hope and joy and love and all those wonderful things our souls were specifically created to exude.

What if we started telling ourselves that the things we long to do, the things that excite us and move us and show us a path to serving people, are actually worth a great deal? What if we only saw our art—all our art—as good and valuable and inspiring? What if we kept believing we’d reach the heights we want to if we just kept putting in the effort, kept disciplining ourselves to make time for it, kept trusting that the Spirit within us is moving and working and shaping our life and our art? What if we exchanged our fear for faith again?

Maybe we'd once again see it's all worth it.

Jumping In, Otra Vez

I've been in Guadalajara for one week now.

So much has happened so far and I'm not sure where to begin.

I could tell you about my all-around frustrating experience in getting to this country--thankfully only frustrating and not completely disastrous, as were most of my experiences traveling to and from Bolivia. I could tell you about the eleven children at the orphanage, full of personality, and the four-year old, Angel, constantly making me laugh. I could tell you about the other intern, Shea, and all the celebrations we had for her birthday, including salsa and bachata dancing at Mambocafe. I could tell you about volleyball in the park and Bible studies and English classes at the cultural center. I could tell you about the food I've eaten and the gorgeous weather and biking around my neighborhood. I could tell you about the similarities and differences between here and the U.S. and here and Bolivia. I could tell you about common hand gestures I've learned, beautiful people I've met, and how to get to the closest Starbucks from my house. 

During this past week, I've soaked in a lot. 

Sometimes I feel completely overwhelmed, overstimulated, uncomfortable, reserved, not ready at all to open up, to jump in to new relationships, to teach English in a different way and in such different contexts. 

Over the years I've stepped out numerous times into new places, new communities, new situations. No matter how many times I've done it, it doesn't seem to get much easier for me. It's scary. It means trusting people with your stories, messing up, putting down your pride, and trusting you have strength in you that you can't see. 

But time and time again, I see it's worth it. I see myself thrive. I see myself come alive. I see love and a whole lot of grace and I see the expansiveness of the kingdom of God.

We sang this Rich Mullins song Sunday morning and it evoked nostalgia for this 90's kid. I'll leave you with these beautiful words:

"So if I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will pull me through
And if I can't, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You
And if I sing, let me sing for the joy that has born in me these songs
And if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home"

-Rich Mullins