Did I fail?

This is it. I’ve come to the end of an adventure. I’m moving back to Virginia. Yes, it’s quite sudden. If you’d asked me two weeks ago if I’d be moving, I would have said no. Because at that time, I wasn’t moving. I’ve always known that my life in El Paso was very fragile, but I didn’t realize how fragile. Recently, my living situation went down the toilet, calling into question my continued stay in El Paso. Honestly, I’d always assumed it would be my car that would break and leave me with no options; funny how my best guess was wrong.

I have mixed emotions about leaving. On the one hand, living with my family in Virginia will provide much needed rest for my soul. On the other hand, I didn’t think I’d be saying good bye to my friends here so soon. Part of me is relieved that I’m leaving, part of me is apprehensive about what my new life will be like. Think of any emotion imaginable, and there’s a good chance I’m feeling it.

And amid the swirling whirlpool of emotions, a single question keeps bubbling to the surface: did I fail?

You see, I moved to El Paso with the hope of helping my church here get involved in the city more. I had big plans, grand ideas, and only one me. The first six months I spent nearly killing myself in a terrible job and trying to figure out my new life. The second half of this year I spent battling different personal struggles that kept popping up. I tried to work on my big plans, I thought of even grander ideas, and things kept on getting in the way. I planned to spend my summer working on church projects, but within the first few weeks, both my computer and my cell phone died, erasing my entire plan for the summer and any work I had done. And by the time I got new technology, my work hours had increased, and different personal problems had cropped up, seeping away my time and energy. Did I fail?

Sometime right before I moved here or just after I’d moved, I remember sitting and thinking of all my grand plans. They looked so beautiful in my head. And in the same moment that I saw their beauty, I saw through them. It was as if a small voice in my head said, “Here are your plans. Your desires are good, there’s nothing wrong, but in the end, they probably won’t be fulfilled. And that’s okay. God has other plans that he’s going to make happen.” This whole time, I’d hoped that voice hadn’t been right. I hoped that the probability of that “probably” was tipped in my favor. But it looks like it wasn’t. And that’s okay.

You see, God was doing other things. I was learning basic life lessons, like don’t drive without a spare tire and always establish a rent contract. I was also learning gritty truths about God’s plan for his church, like our call to love our brothers even when they sin against us and that this love takes different forms at different times. I was learning about God’s grace to us, like the fact that God does not call us to endure all suffering and sometimes he provides ways of escape. I was learning things about myself, like how to stand up for myself and what I really want to be when I grow up. I was learning how to understand what I’d lived through in Mexico and how to approach many different issues and questions that popped up during my two-year stay. I was learning how to understand myself and work with my strengths and strengthen my weaknesses.

So, did I fail? Yeah, pretty much. Just about nothing I wanted to accomplish got done. But that does not make this year a failure. I’ve provided you all with a short summary of things I’ve learned, but I know the list is longer, and the learning deeper. I’m sure there are many things that didn’t even make it on my list that God is checking off of his. And you know what? All this is not just okay, it’s great. Sometimes failure is just as good as success because the process of failing gives so much growth.

So long, El Paso. I’m gonna miss you.

He fallado?

Y asi es. Ya termine una aventura. Me voy a regresar a Virginia. Si, esta bien inesperado. Si me habias preguntado hace dos semanas si me iba a mudar, te hubiera dicho que no. Porque, en este momento, no me iba a mudar. Yo siempre sabia que mi vida en El Paso era bien fragil, pero no me dí cuenta de tan fragil era. Hace dos semanas, la situación de mi habitación se puso bien feo, y tenia que preguntar si me podria quedar en El Paso por mas tiempo. Honestamente, yo siempre pensaba que seria mi camioneta que se descumpusiera y me dejaria sin opciones; se me hace chistoso como mi mejor adivina fue equivocada.

Hay muchos emociones al dentro de mi sobre el tema de mudarme. De un lado, vivir con mi familia en Virginia me dará un descanso muy necesario para mi alma. Del otro lado, yo no creia que me iba a despedir de mis amigos aquí tan rapido. Una parte de me encuentra mucha paz en irme, otra parte de mi tiene temores de como va a ser mi nueva vida en Virginia. Si piensas de cualquier emoción, es muy probable que lo siento.

Y entre el torbellino de emociones, hay una pregunta que se presenta: que si he fallado.

Pues, es que me mude a El Paso con la esperanza de ayudar mi iglesia aquí en convivir mas con la cuidad. Yo tenia muchos planes, grandes ideas, y yo era solamente una persona. En los primeros seis meses, casi me mataba trabajando en un ambiente horrible y sufria con todos los cambios. La segunda mitad de este año que he estado en El Paso lo pasaba batallando con diferentes luchas personales que aparecían de cualquier lado. Intentaba trabajar con mis muchos planes, pensaba de ideas aun mas grandes, y mas problemas se aparecían. Habia planeado pasar todo mi verano trabajando en los projectos de la iglesia, pero en las primeras semanas, mi computadora y mi cel se descompusieron y boraron todo el trabajo que ya habia hecho. Y cuando por fin tenia nueva technologia, estaba trabajando mas horas y tenia otros problemas personales y ya no tenia tiempo ni energía. He fallado?

Una vez justamente antes o justamente despues de mudar aquí, me acuerdo que estaba pensando de todo lo que queria hacer aquí. Todos mis planes si miraron bien bonitos en mi mente. Y en el mismo momento que veía su belleza, veía mas allá de ellos. Y fue como si una pequeña voz me decía, “Aquí ves todos tus planes. Tus deseos son buenos, no estás equivocada, pero al final, es problable que no los vas a lograr. Y está bien. Dios tiene otros planes que el va a cumplir.” Todo este tiempo, yo queria pensar que esta voz estaba equivocada. Esperaba que la probabilidad de la palabra “probable” me convenia. Pero se me hace que así no fue. Y está bien.

Ves, Dios estaba hacienda otras cosas. Yo estaba aprendiendo las basicas de la vida, como nunca debes de manejar sin una llanta extra y siempre quieres tener un contrato de renta. Estaba aprendiendo verdades arenosas del plan de Dios para su iglesia, como nuestra llamada a amar nuestros hermanos aun que pecan contra nosotros y que este amor se mira diferente en cada situacion. Estaba aprendiendo de la gracia de Dios para nosotros, como el hecho de que Dios no nos llama a soportar todo sufrimiento y aveces el provea una manera de escape. Estaba aprendiendo cosas a cerca de mi, como como puedo hablar por mi misma y que quiero ser exactamente cuando sea grande. Estaba aprendiendo como entender lo que vivía en Mexico y como ver diferentes problemas y preguntas que se presentaron durante mis dos años en Mexico. Estaba aprendiendo como entender a mi misma y como trabajar con my fuerzas y como fortalecer mis debilidades.

Asi la pregunta, he fallado? Basicalmente, si. Cualquier cosa que queria lograr no se logró. Pero eso no significa que yo soy un fracaso. Les he dado un corto resumen de las cosas que he aprendido, pero yo se que la lista es mas grande y el aprendizaje mas profundo. Estoy segura de que hay muchas cosas que ni puse en mi lista que Dios esta quitando de la suya. Y sabes que? A todo esto, digo mas que, “esta bien,” digo “que bien.” A veces un fracaso es tan bueno como un exito por que el proceso de fallar da mucho crecimiento.

Adios, El Paso, te voy extrañar.

those golden tresses

He said it in Spanish, but I don’t quite remember how it went. In English, it was something to the effect of, “You have the most beautiful golden tresses.” At the time, half of me died inside of awkwardness as I watched a man old enough to be my father, maybe even grandfather, hit on me. The other half of me laughed falsely and smiled politely.

There’ve been others too. The man who said if he were young enough he’d marry me himself after speaking with me for only seven minutes. The man who lamented that my lunch break wasn’t right that minute so that I could go to lunch with him. The man who asked if he could give me his number so that he could remind me when he’d come to visit me at work. The men who ask if I’m married when they have no need to know. The men who come to my register “so that no one will think I’m gay.”

When I remember these things, thoughts swirl around in my head. I’m sad, sad for so many things. Sad that these comments make me feel like a thing. Sad that I didn’t know what to say. Sad that it’s happened so many times. Sad that I thought that if I expressed my discomfort, I would be offending them. Sad that I’m not the only one. Sad that I sacrificed my discomfort for theirs. Sad that the “praise” I was given eroded my worth. Sad that these men might not have even known.

And as I sit here, sad, I wonder what can be done. I wonder how I can explain what exactly these comments mean. I wonder how I can respond without devaluing my legitimate feelings. I wonder how I can encourage the world to see me for more than my sex.

Before I ever received any of these remarks, I thought I wanted them. I thought that they would establish my true value. If a stranger could see that I was pretty, that I was desirable, then I was something. My worth would be unquestionable, displayed for all to see.

But when the comments finally came rolling in, they made me feel smaller than ever. It was not a problem of the number of compliments, as if more would boost my self-esteem. It was the realization that in a few short words, one look of the eyes, I was given a price tag. My value, my humanity, was summed up as “golden tresses.” I was worth time because of my golden tresses. Or another one I commonly get: la güera que habla español, which means “the white girl who speaks Spanish.”

When I heard these comments, I realized that in the eyes of these men, there was no room for anything but golden tresses. They would never want to hear about my ideas for dealing with drug addiction; they would never want to know that I think I’ve figured out a forgotten factor to why Donald Trump has been so popular, or why I think it’s important to let kids be angry. All they would want was a hollow laugh, a shallow smile, and those golden tresses.

when Christmas is dark

This year, I’ve had a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit. While in previous years, I worked hard to make my own decorations, even if it meant a Christmas tree made out of t-shirts, this year my house isn’t even decorated for Christmas. My stocking hangs from my door, but it’s not even bright red or green, it’s a dull grey and brown. The only other hint of Christmas is two ornaments hanging above my bed; the one is a cinnamon-scented blue and silver ornament, and the other is a sparkly penguin in a Santa hat. But considering they’ve been hanging there since I moved in at the end of August, they do little to signal the arrival of Christmas.

Every year I’ve spent Christmas away from home, it’s been hard. The first year I spent Christmas away from home, I cried many nights as Christmas approached. Some nights I cried because I wouldn’t be home for Christmas, but many other nights I cried because I was caring for children who would never go home for Christmas. Children who had been abused, abandoned, mistreated by their parents, the very people who should love them most. Tonight, I again feel the weight of sin instead of the joy this season is supposed to bring. At first, I was angry because I have to work tomorrow even though I’m so sick I can no longer speak. To top it off, my boss subtly accused me of lying about being sick when he has no reason to believe that I would lie. Then I received a text from a friend. She’s staying with relatives for Christmas and a man four times her age is hitting on her, and not subtly either. My heart grew heavy when I heard that.

Why can I feel so poignantly the injustices of the world at a time when I should most see the hope of the world? Why must sin continue? Why can’t Jesus just come back and make this all better? Why are there creepy old men who hit on girls a fourth their age? Why are there evil parents who abuse there children? Why are there uncaring bosses who make you work when you’re sick? Why isn’t Jesus here?

As I wondered over these things, angry at the injustice of it all, I began to rebuke myself, saying that we are all sinners and we don’t deserve better. But before my rebuttal had even finished being formed, I stopped myself. What a lie if ever there was one! God never approves of sin, even if a sinner will receive the consequences. All sin is an abomination to him, from the relatively small injustice of me working when I’m sick to the hugely atrocious sin of abuse. Sin is sin, and God hates all of it. God did not roll his eyes when I cried tonight because I would have to work tomorrow. He felt the weight too.

So why, then, does it continue? Didn’t Jesus come to right all of this? Where is my hope today?

I only have answers to some of my questions because God has not given me the insight to know all. Tonight, God told me where my hope lies. My hope lies in Christmas. But not in the holly jolly, bright red and green Christmas so familiar to us all. My hope lies in a dull grey and brown manger. Christmas was not an end to suffering; it was the beginning of lifelong suffering for my Savior. My hope lies in the one injustice that God ever approved: Jesus suffered and died for all sin once and for all on the cross and rose again. That is the truest injustice because Jesus never sinned. He endured unjust treatment, but not once did he return the evil. Because he died in my place without sin, I can draw near to God.

And that injustice gives me hope. If God committed the most egregious injustice for my good to give me hope, I can only assume that any smaller injustice he allows is working toward the same purpose. My boss’ mistreatment of me has not gone unnoticed by him. The harassment my friend is enduring is not unforeseen. The scars left on those children by their parents are not irredeemable. It seems crazy to say, impossible to believe. But if God can conquer the grave, the ultimate symbol of sin, then he can conquer sin. If God is powerful enough to conquer sin, then he is powerful enough to dominate sin and use it for his purposes. If God is good enough to make his purpose saving a sinner like me, then he is good enough to care for a sinner like me, day in and day out. That’s my hope.

Jesus suffered to end my suffering. My suffering hasn’t ended, but it’s been changed. Before Jesus saved me, I suffered because sin brought me suffering. Today, Jesus asks me to suffer so that I might proclaim Jesus’ suffering through mine so that others like me might have their suffering transformed so that the world may know the good news of Jesus’ suffering. And one day, one beautiful day when God has accomplished his purposes, God will end all suffering.

The angels sang because Jesus would suffer and by suffering bring healing to the world. I guess, then, it is appropriate that God would let me feel the weight of sin at this time of year. Without the weight of sin, Christmas has no meaning. True Christmas spirit is not the end of pain; it is the use of pain for everlasting glory.

musings on moving

            Several piles of random items scatter my floor right now as I sit on the one unoccupied corner of my bed. Two packed suitcases are shoved by the wall and half-packed boxes sit on my floor. In four days, I’m moving. I’m about to leave the hardest, sweetest two years of my life and move on to who knows what. My emotions are all jumbled; I’m reeling in pain from leaving forty-some kids that I’ve grown to love so much, but I’m cautiously excited about my new life in the city.

At this emotionally-charged crossroads, it’s so easy to wander down the what-if path. I think of what would have happened if I had never come, what would happen if I chose to move somewhere else, what would have happened if I had done things differently while in Mexico. As I wonder, I think about the different blessings found in each what-if, usually the relationships. What if I were still near my family? What if I were close to this friend? What if I had loved more selflessly?

All the while, a growing frustration builds up inside, waiting until full to dump its load. But even when I finally break down and talk about it or cry, the frustration isn’t satisfied. I still do not have what I’ve been longing for and I still am not content with my future. My heart searches for fulfillment in every imaginary alternate universe in which some of my wildest dreams come true and it comes up empty. Every what-if is an attempt to find satisfaction in something other than God’s perfect plan.

Deep down, I know that while I could have chosen any of the paths spread before me, I never would have. In all of my decisions, I acted completely in character.

Within every what-if, there are desired blessings coupled with natural consequences. If I had stayed with my family in Virginia, I never would have met nor loved E—, C—, G—, A—, and on the list goes with names and faces. If I had moved to a different city, I wouldn’t have the incredible privilege of being a bridge between two cultures. If I had loved more selflessly, my time here might not be up. On every side, I am required to sacrifice something.

When I investigate the what-ifs, I seek to find the least of all evils. My secret hope is that the current trajectory of my life will be the least painful, and therefore by default, the best. But loving something for being the least bad is no sort of love. It’s a dull resignation. It’s a gloomy fulfillment of duty. No wonder it doesn’t satisfy my frustrations.

If I’m to find any joy in my unchartered future, I need to love something, not least-hate something. As I survey my future, the only thing worth loving and pinning my hopes to is God. Every beautiful part of my new life has its joys and sorrows. Being in El Paso means not being in Mexico or Virginia. Being a bridge between two cultures means not belonging completely to either. Being in school means doing homework. Only in God does every undesirable trait find value. Being in El Paso means being part of the exciting advance of the gospel in that city. Being a bridge between two cultures means being Jesus’ radical love. Being in school means learning tools to continue God’s work. With the glorification of Christ as the outcome of every sacrifice, it all becomes worth it, because for so many innumerable reasons, Christ is worth it all.

Discontentment and just a grain of faith

These days come semi-frequently; the ones where I want so endlessly that there’s no motivation to do anything other than sit and want more.  Everything is subpar; everyone comes up lacking.  Gifts from God quickly become overshadowed by the gifts he didn’t give me.

Today, these were the thoughts God gave me to battle my discontentment:

“[The things I want] aren’t evil things, but as the idols of my heart, they are.  This, right here, right now, is my life.  [God is] asking me to obey here and now.  Obedience, in this case, isn’t an action, it’s a reaction.  [God is] asking me to have faith that Jesus is better than all those things that I want.  I have Jesus, but right now I don’t have faith.

“These answers feel so scripted; how can they be true?  How can Jesus become so alive to me, or rather, I to him, that I see my desires for what they really are: more sand in this vast desert?

“Some rehearsed answers are floating through my head: pray and read my Bible; but as I tap on them precociously to see if they’ll hold up, a high, hollow sound rings in my ears.

“And I just realized why: these are all me-based things.  ‘What can I do to be happier?’  But that question yields fruitless answers.  I’ve stopped looking for a reaction and started looking for an action.  If I truly understand the gospel, I know there’s nothing I can do.  I can pray and read my Bible, but those actions, devoid of faith, will leave me trusting that the air will hold me up and keep me from falling.  It just isn’t going to happen.

“Or I can put my miniscule grain of faith in God.  I can look my feelings up and down, and turn to look to God.  I can hope to feel better, or I can believe that God is better.  And the beauty of believing is that I don’t have to see it.  At this moment, I do not see how God is better.  But I can choose to count it as truth just as I count it as truth that Australia exists.

“The beauty of faith is its power.  I have been justified by faith (Rom. 5:1); I walk by faith (2 Cor. 5:7); I have been saved through faith (Eph. 2:8); I live by faith (Heb. 10:38); indeed, my faith has overcome the world (1 Jn. 5:4).  These are no trifling wonders performed through faith.  If I have faith that in Jesus all of my desires have been met and satisfied with even more to spare, I have no doubt that God will prove himself faithful to show me the wonders of his Son.

“Lord, if just a grain’s worth of faith can accomplish all that, give me more faith.”

Don't let another man beat you to it

In honor of my daddy, whose birthday is today.  This is just one example of how great a dad you are.  I love you and thank God for you all the time!

            “You’re beautiful.”  I used to hear these words a lot, not from cute boys, but from my dad.  I would always roll my eyes and whine, “Daaaaaaad.”

            He was just saying it because I was his daughter.  His declaration of my beauty was worthless.  Because my beauty didn’t make him love me any more or less and he would love me just the same if I were an obese, buck-tooth, squinty-eyed kid, I shrugged it off.

            He told me other things too.  He praised me for my hard work, my loving heart, the care I showed others.  These comments I valued a little bit more, but I still viewed them as biased.

Now as a single nineteen year-old far from home and family, I can’t thank my dad enough for letting me know I was beautiful and valued.  Because of the many miles that separate us, I don’t always get a chance to talk to my dad, and I miss the love he gave me, those little affirmations he’d offer.  Many days, I want someone to tell me, “You’re beautiful.  You’re lovely.  I love you.”  Scratch that.  Every day, I want to hear that.  But many days, I don’t.  My girl friends are nice sources of affirmation, but sometimes my heart tells me that doesn’t cut it.  I want a guy to tell me I’m beautiful.  And then I take it a step farther.  I want that guy over there to tell me that.  I want to pull a compliment out of him.  I want attention.  My heart whispers, You need attention.

But something stops me.  Part of it is that I know that the way in which I want to gratify my desires is wrong and selfish.  But then there’s this other thing that tips the scale, because knowledge of my incorrect desires isn’t enough.  I know my dad still loves me and thinks I’m beautiful.  One thousand, nine hundred sixty-one miles aren’t enough to change that.  Sure, he may exaggerate my skills and beauty a little, but in the end, he’s still right.  I am valued.  I am worthwhile.  I don’t need to weasel a compliment out of some guy by the way I dress or the way I laugh at his jokes.  I am precious whether he chooses to tell me or not.

Seeing that, as of right now, not a single guy my age has chosen to tell me as much—that I am beautiful—I can’t thank my dad enough for telling me ever since I can remember that I am beautiful and more than beautiful.  If he hadn’t told me so repeatedly, so assuredly, that I am beautiful and that I am valued for more than my beauty, I don’t know if I’d be able to resist aggressively seeking attention from guys.  I’m not sure if I would have the discernment to distinguish others’ appraisals of my hair, face, and body from my identity.

And it matters that it was my dad.  Because I think all girls recognize the deep-seated desire to be praised, we praise each other (if sometimes a little too often and insincerely).  But most guys, especially respectable guys, are quite stingy with their compliments.  Be it that they just don’t notice beauty as much as girls or they just feel uncomfortable expressing their appreciation or what you will, I hear fewer appraisals of beauty come out of guys’ mouths.  So when my dad said I was beautiful, it had to be at least a little true because he took the effort to say it.  And when he said it a lot, it must mean that it’s not the pretty of a good hair do, it’s an inerasable beauty.  When he took time to express love for my responsibility, my generosity, my love for others, it meant that men value and desire these traits in women as well as beauty.

So, father, brother, uncle, cousin, do you want to protect the women in your life that you love from the self-inflicted heartache of looking for love in all the wrong places?  Tell her she is beautiful.  Tell her she is loved and valued for more than her beauty.  Name the qualities that make her unique personality so lovely.  Don’t let another man beat you to it, because the sweet taste of the words rolling off the first man’s lips into her eager ear may be too compelling for her to discern his care or lack thereof for her.