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.

waiting

            I opened my door to find a four year old boy raising his hand to knock.

            “What do you need, J—?”

            “I wa a cooie,” he replied, leaving out a few consonants.

            “A cookie?  No, I can’t give you one, sweetie.  Did your mom come today?”

            “No,” he said and glanced at the ground.

I sighed and changed the subject.

            He’s been waiting for his mom to come for longer than any four year old boy should have to wait.  He wants a good thing—what could be better than a young boy seeing his loving mother?—but right now it’s being denied him.  He doesn’t know why.  I don’t know why.  It’s so hard to watch him wait.

            I, too, am waiting for things.  I have desires tucked deep inside my heart, good ones that I remember daily and don’t see fulfilled.  I don’t know why.  Others around me don’t know why.  It’s so hard to wait.

Neither of us knows how long.  Will his mother come this week?  Will I get what I want this month?  This week passes.  This month passes.  And nothing.  And we wonder why.

But as I review my ponderings, I’ve found them to be a source of deeper discontentment.  If I only peppers my thoughts.  My future becomes solely dependent upon my actions; I am the master of my fate.  But as I change things, set up the chain of events correctly on my end and what I want still doesn’t come around, I’m left in despair.  I come to the realization that I can’t make myself happy.  And if I can’t make myself happy, what then?

I’m forced to learn contentment or wallow in misery.  I can’t control my circumstances, but I can control my reactions.

Years ago, I heard someone say, “The point of our trials is not for us to understand why, but rather for us to be made more like Christ.”  All the time I ask why, I’m looking for the answers in the wrong places.  My “why” is not searching for the purpose, but the problem.  My question assumes a flaw, not a function.  And that tiny speck of perspective, it multiplies and grows until it is all I can see.  God’s goodness disappears as I close my eyes to convince myself that there is only darkness.  Sure, there’s only darkness, because that’s all I’ve chosen to see.

When I finally tire of my created darkness, I peek out onto the world.  Light.  The first sign of God’s goodness.  My trials have a purpose: my joy.  What could be better than being like Christ, the incarnation of God himself?

Although I now see the light, I don’t see the future clearly.  That’s why I turn my head over my shoulder.  I know what I’ve been through.  I have stories of God’s faithfulness.  And if I’m too tired to recount them, others have stories too.  The centuries are bursting with them.  So I listen to them over and over again.  I whisper them to myself as I fall asleep.  I draw them in my notebook.  If my God is the definition of faithfulness and I have overflowing proof of the fact, I can find no reason to declare him guilty.  I cannot rationally review the evidence, the fingerprints and the proof that declare my God faithful and me unfaithful, and slam my mallet and yell, “Guilty!  God you are guilty of unfaithfulness.  Maybe you haven’t been unfaithful yet, but you will be.  I just know it.  Lock him up.”  To do so is to attempt to trap God, force him to bribe me to let him go.  When I sew the evidence into my day, scribble it on the moments with permanent marker, I get caught in my own trap and my fraud can’t help but whither.

I’m still waiting.  Little J— is still waiting.  Who knows how long we’ll wait?  We may spend the rest of our lives waiting.  But if we wait with a purpose in view instead of a problem, we will find the pain of waiting grow paler as we reap the product of waiting with a purpose: joy as the purpose is fulfilled and we are made more like Christ.

(No, I don't believe in motivational photos.  I'm just tired of my link thumbnail being jalapeno peppers.)

Sojourning in the land of "I don't know"

Last winter, I made the decision to not attend nursing school, but that left me with the question, “What now?”  The answer was simple, but one that was a little hard to swallow: “I don’t know.”  Having two parents who are renowned for their skill in planning and having always prided myself on having purpose and direction, “I don’t know” was a bit of a scary move.  Was it okay to not know?

After grappling with that question, I concluded that, yes, it is okay to not know.  It’s human and it’s humble.  I am not God.  I simply do not know sometimes and if I believe I do, I’m only playing a cruel joke on myself.  I discovered that “I don’t know” is actually the land in which I had been living all along, I just had never admitted it, instead choosing to speak the language of pride when  the country I was inhabiting spoke the language of humility.

Accepting this position of bewilderment can be a mature act.  The way in which I walk forward changes from a confident swagger that results in many stumbles to a humble following that sometimes requires me to run, sometimes walk, more often than not, crawl, and always stick my feet forward hoping with assurance that the ground will rise up to meet the soles of my feet even though I can’t see it.

But only recently have I found out that “I don’t know” is never supposed to be a place of residence.  I thought that maybe I could stay put in “I don’t know” and eventually find my way, but that’s not what God intends.  God hasn’t left me clueless in this world, but rather, “[His] word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”  (Psalm 119:105)  Sometimes, I can see just my feet and the ground underneath, and other times the light reaches just a little farther ahead of where I’m treading.  I may not be able to see far into the future, or even into the future at all, but that does not mean that I should stop walking intentionally forward, because God has illuminated the part of the path I need to see.

“I don’t know” is a sojourn, a dose of humility to help us on our way to following God with our whole heart and the time comes round when God calls us to move on and arrive somewhere.

When I think of this “new” concept, I think of Abram.  God called him to “I don’t know.”  Literally.

He said, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father's house to the land that I will show you.”  (Genesis 12:1)

Abram had no clue where he was going.  His life was suddenly a big “I don’t know.”  But he didn’t plop down his tent and say, “Sorry, God, until you show me the final destination, we’re not going anywhere.”  Instead, he followed, camping at one place, then another.  Sometimes, it was time to rest for a while, but no camp sight was ever his home.

I may live in a constant state of not knowing what will happen, but that doesn’t mean I need to stay there forever.  After a time, I need to pick up my bags and start walking.  My new destination may be another city in the land of “I don’t’ know,” but I’m called to keep moving.  Because, if I don’t, if I stay put at a camp sight, I run the risk of “doing” a decision without ever responsibly making it.  And that is simply not what God has asked me to do.  I am responsible for my time and my actions, and therefore, I need to take them by the horns.  That is, I need to prayerfully, obediently, confidently, and faithfully live my life in full accordance with God’s Word.

With all that said, I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that I have a few decisions that I need to make in my life right now.  And I don’t yet know what they will be.  I just know that I need to make them.  Form them, labor over them.  And in this time of evaluating and planning, I would appreciate any prayers, because I recognize that ultimately, I’m not forging a new path.  Rather, I’m discovering one that’s been laid out for me by a living, loving God, and I and those around me need wisdom, discernment, and obedience to recognize God’s voice, listen to it, and obey it.

It’s time for me to move ahead in the land of “I don’t know.”

The simplest command: stay.

            The urgent desire to leave came suddenly, like a breeze stirring a peaceful room.  I was surrounded by all of the school’s teacher, who were animatedly discussing some point or other that had nothing to do with me, and in my boredom I had let my mind wander.  The thing that slipped up to the surface without even a thought was one word: leave.  I had half a mind to bolt out of the room and just keep running; to run until I had escaped the fence that encloses me daily, run until I had seen a fresh face, run until I had left behind the various projects and problems that nibble away all of my minutes, run until I had abandoned the schedule that rules my never-changing life.

            But, in accordance to my goody-two-shoes complex, I didn’t.  Instead, I jiggled my foot impatiently and imagined the gratifying feeling of running past all boundaries, going somewhere new, seeing something novel.  I started to count the weeks that had passed since I had left my schedule, and then I stopped.  I didn’t want to know how long or short it had been.  Either way it was depressing because nothing would happen today to reset the tally.

            As the meeting ended, I watched as all the other teachers passed through the gate.  And then the last one wrapped the chain around the posts and clicked the bolt.  Their cars left the parking lot one by one, free to follow whichever winding, dusty road their heart chose.  I turned and followed the path that I walk twenty times a day.

            I slipped into my room and locked the door.  More walls and locks within fences and closed gates.  I sighed and picked up my Bible, ruffled through the pages until I found Philippians, and read the whole book.

            “Only that in every way…Christ is proclaimed.”

            “Do all things without grumbling or questioning…”

            “Finally, my brothers, rejoice in the Lord.”

“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”

“…I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content…I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

            “I can do all things through him who strengthens me…”  Familiar words, rolled and crinkled like a wad of old Benjamins.  But just as a bunch of Benjamins tucked in a wallet have the appearance of wealth, but carry no intrinsic value, so these words appear valiant, but do not make me strong.

            I pulled the words out, not with flash and fanfare, but more like a homeless person scrounging their pockets for change to pay for the $1 burger.  For the words to do me any good, I had to exchange them, hoping in faith that the promise they held would be made good.

            As I read the words and believed, I wasn’t using this promise to buy an impressive story of God’s faithfulness; all I wanted was strength for today to follow the simplest of commands: stay.  I had always imagined that the power of the promise came with the complexity of the request.  This promise would shine most brilliantly when I asked God to help me do the utterly impossible, when I asked him to move a mountain into the sea.

            But today, I’m using the promise to ask God to keep the mountain rooted to its foundations.  Today, the command is: stay.  Tomorrow, the command will probably be: stay.  And the day after and the day after, until who knows when.  It’s the simplest command; it doesn’t require me to learn a new skill, go somewhere new, or meet new people.  It doesn’t present me with the unknown.  It presents me with the familiar, old, and mundane.

But the simplest command requires the hardest work.  As I remain immobile, it requests my patience, my faithfulness, my endurance, my faith, my hope, my joy.  The simplest command requires me to literally do nothing, but rather to become something.

How to enchilar yourself in honor of Mexican Independence Day

Tomorrow is September 16, otherwise known as Mexican Independence Day.  Yeah, you got that right, it’s not el cinco de mayo, like we all thought.  El cinco de mayo is actually the anniversary of the battle of Puebla and nobody celebrates it.  Like, nobody at all.  Tomorrow is the big party and in honor of el dieciseis de septiembre, I thought I’d take some time to teach you all how to make one version of classic Mexican chile.

            This is a recipe that my friend Juanis taught me without ever teaching me.  I just know how to do it after seeing her do it so many times as I sat in the baby home kitchen with her, talking away.  She is a wonderful friend and a delight to be around.  I have spent so many times laughing with her and just passing time.

            So, here’s how you make it.  Take four jalapeños and sit them on top of your stove burner with the heat on medium low and let them cook, turning them over until they’re nice and burnt on the outside.  (Note: it actually should be about 6 or 8 jalapeños, but this way it’ll be less spicy.)

Meanwhile, dice up two Roma tomatoes and cut a white onion into thin half-circle slivers (Note: they’d also use less onion too, but this, again, will make it less spicy.  Few Americans appreciate spice like the Mexicans do!).  Stick them in a pan and salt generously.

When the jalapeños are done cooking and look like this, tear off the stems and peels and stick them into a bowl and start mashing them with the bottom of a glass or ceramic cup.  

If you’re not in for too much spice, you can also pause to take out some of the seeds.  But you shouldn’t.  Come on, be adventurous, your life could use a little spice.

Once finished, add them to your onions and tomatoes, pause and admire how one of Mexico’s most popular foods has all the colors of the Mexican flag, pour in just a little bit of oil and let cook for about 15 minutes.

For an extra splash of fun, add in some cubes of menonite cheese.

Now, stick it on top of your favorite Mexican dish (or really any food, for that matter) and eat and be happy.

Oh, and don't forget to eat so much chile that you enchilar yourself.  Enchilarse is a Spanish verb that means to eat so much chile that your mouth is on fire.

Boxes and crosses

            I woke up. Uggggggghhh.  My head. My throat.  All of me.  I considered rolling over and sleeping some more, but there was work to be done.  Always work.  And so I marched dutifully into my day.

I took some cold medicine.  Maybe then I’d feel better.

I got some work done.  At least I felt productive.

I did some unexpected, hard work.  Hey, I didn’t complain.  Go me.  Renee has an agenda, and she’s going to get it done.  I kept on going.

            Moving onto my next task, I dropped a bag of stuff off with a friend.  But she didn’t let me move straight on to the following chore.  She stopped me and we talked.  And thank goodness.  It’s like she knew.  She saw me marching out to battle, but noticed I was battling the wrong things and had grabbed the wrong weapons.  My enemies: time and tasks.  My weapons:                .  That’s right.  Nothing.  I had no weapons.

            “Renee,” she said to me.  “If we watch the children, but we don’t have Christ, our work is nothing.  More than anything, more than everything, we need to receive the love of Christ and give the love of Christ.  Daily.  Without it, our work is nothing.”

            In my mind I perused my day.  Christ?  Nope, hadn’t been there.  I forgot to invite him.

I woke up sick, I took medicine.

I had work to do, Renee did it alone.

Unexpected jobs?  I bucked up and dealt with them.

I had reduced my work to a list of defined tasks that I thought I, in my puny power, could accomplish.  And from my human perspective, I did them.

            But my friend challenged me.  Was my work really a list of finite jobs and chores that I could box up and then check off?  Or am I called every day to take up an awkward, bulky cross and follow Christ?

            How many times do I see the cross Jesus asks me to carry and say, “I can take that, I’m strong enough.  But first, let me simplify.  We’ll rearrange the cross and reduce it to a box, because that’s easier to carry.”  But in chopping off the limbs of the cross and bundling them up, I’ve missed the point.  Christ not only took on the weight of my sin, he carried the shape too.  He absorbed the wrath of God and he addresses my heart.  It would have been easier, I’m sure, for him to just have been my propitiation.  But he’s more; he’s my sanctification.  He’s sent his Spirit to abide in and work through me.

            And so the cross that Jesus asks me to carry is a cross that requires loving the children, not merely watching them.  Such a cross includes cheerfulness, not simply dutiful doing.  Such a cross calls for submitting my circumstances to God, not taking some cold medicine.  Such a cross insists upon Christ’s presence every moment of the day.

            Humanly speaking, yesterday I seemed to be winning my battle.  I was slashing and slaying tasks left and right, charging ahead dauntlessly though wounded and ragged.  But I doubt that’s the way God saw my day.  I’m sure a looked like a child with a feather for a sword and a piece of paper as a shield, charging into a dandelion field “slaying” my foes and watching the white tops fall to the ground in satisfaction.
            And to this naïve warrior, my friend came, calling sweetly, “Renee, look to Christ.  He blesses your work, he gives it meaning.  He bestows wisdom and power for the complicated range of emotions for which he asks you to care.  He gives rest to the weary and the sick.  Come, abide in him.”

            I walked away from that encounter humbled.  My checked off to do list was now rubbish, because it was no longer the enemy.  My new enemy, my attitude, was a little more shadowy, and a lot less defined.

But my new weapons, they are so much better.  In one hand, I grasp the Word of God, and in the other, I hold his hand.

Plans

The plan was so simple: read facebook statuses for a few minutes and then head to bed early to catch up on my growing sleep deficit.  As I sat down to accomplish my plan, a flash of lighting darted in my window followed by a boom of thunder that shook my kitchen walls.  Ahhhhh, a storm.  I stood up and went to my kitchen door to enjoy the storm that surrounded the ranch from every side.  And as I watched, it came closer until the rain began to parade noisily on my tin roof.  I sighed and listened to the cannoning thunder.  As I listened, a different thud made its way to my ears.  Someone was knocking on my door that connects to the girls’ dorm.

            Not excited in the least about this development, I went to see what was up.  I opened the door to find two girls about eleven or ten years old wrapped in their blankets and looking at me with scared eyes.

            “We can’t sleep, Renee.  The lights keep on flickering on and off and the thunder is so loud and scary.”

            My plan for an early bedtime had not foreseen this, but I thought I might be able to salvage the situation.

            “Aw, I’m sorry.  You know what, though?  I love thunder storms because God is showing his power and if God’s on my side and that’s how powerful he is, I know I don’t have to be afraid.  He’ll protect me.”

            They blinked back at me, completely unappeased with my half-hearted attempt to comfort them and something in my heart whispered that this wasn’t a time to dismiss their fears and send them back to bed.  This meant that my early bedtime plan was now on life support.  My only hope was that the storm would pass quickly.

            I let them in my room and we sat on my floor and began to talk.  They explained to me all the things they were afraid of; the figures they saw in dark corners, the tales that haunted their sleep, the imaginings that kept them awake at night.  And they asked.  They asked why I wasn’t afraid, they asked if the things they feared were real, and what they could do when they were afraid.

            And as the storm outside slowly quieted, I told them.  I told them that I was afraid sometimes, I told them that the things they feared were real sometimes, but that we have a shelter in the storm always, a God to whom even the darkness is not dark.  We talked about the devil, his limited power, and his desire to make us fear him instead of God.  But I got to tell them with confidence that my God is greater than this devil who tries to make us tremble in fear.  My God wants us to tremble in awe and worship at his great love that envelops us when he could and should smite us.

            As I told them about my God, they asked more questions.  How was I patient with them?  How could they learn to be patient with others?  How come I didn’t seem to get very angry, but when they promised themselves they would curb their temper, they couldn’t?

            We sat in my room, talking as it grew later.  And when the storm had finally abated and when all of our eyelids began slipping down our eyes, we sank into our beds.

Right before I fell asleep, I looked at the time.  Definitely much later than I had planned to go to bed.

But when I thought about it, I realized I had just gained something better than a few hours of sleep.  I just had the chance to talk to two of the girls personally about my great God.  And this time, unlike so many others, I wasn’t the one starting the conversation, they were.  They wanted to know more about this God.  They wanted to know how he touches their lives.  And if my plans have to be derailed for that to happen, it’s more than okay with me.

"Even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as day,

for darkness is as light with you."

-Psalm 139:12

on self-pity and showers

When I woke up this morning, I swear something was staring me down.  Gorged as all get out and terribly lethargic, self-pity’s tear drop eyes steadily gazed at me.  I squirmed in my bed and I could just feel it.  Yup, today was going to be a battle.  Like any good soldier, I drilled in preparation, reading the Bible and praying, but my heart wasn’t engaged.  The enemy was staring me down from his dark corner in my heart and my soul trembled.

Why such a heaping dose of self-pity?  No reason, no reason at all.  It was just sprinkled in my day like sugar in coffee.

As if my life were a crossword puzzle, I peered around, looking backwards, sideways, diagonal, upside down, searching for all those little “mistakes,” the things that ticked me off.  Once found, I circled them with bright red complaining.  To my trained eye, the day was beginning to look as red as a traffic light.  And self-pity, sitting in his corner, smiled.

I’m a professional pity-partier, and as such, I know better than to voice my woes.  If you voice them, one of two things can happen: an optimist will come and point out all the little rainbows and daisies and hearts and completely ignore your incredibly legitimate sorrows, or a better pity-partier will come and steal the show.  Either way, your pity party is ruined.  So I let my gloomy thoughts chase their tales in my head and self-pity take a light snooze as I did the work for him.

In the afternoon, my pity party reached a high-point as I extolled my virtues and pondered why my greatness wasn’t more widely recognized.  In fact, I even began planning this blog post as a sarcastic piece on that very subject that I could either try to redeem at the end with some sort of something about how Jesus is better, or I could entirely give up and let the piece stand as a full fledged pity party (the latter being the preferred option).

Then, the most amazing thing happened.

I took a shower.

Yes, you read that right.  I took a shower.  It was a profound theological moment as I realized my self-centeredness and Christ’s cleansing work on the cross that has the power to wash away my self-pity.

No, just kidding.  It was simply a shower.  It wasn’t even a nice long shower, it was a military shower.  But by the time it was over, I didn’t want to complain any more.  I sat down to right this blog post, and all the perfectly witty quips about my self-pity fled.

As I’ve been writing this, I’ve been trying to understand why my self-pity disappeared.  I can’t say that it was shame over revealing my sin; my family knows that I have no problem doing that.  It definitely wasn’t an epiphany.  I think it was gratefulness.

I couldn’t find anything wrong with my shower.  It was perfectly refreshing.  The only “complaint” I can think of was that it was making me take a break from my hard core pity partying, but even that was perfectly refreshing.  Once I found that thing that made me truly thankful, I didn’t want to ruin that beautiful feeling of thankfulness with a pity party.  I just wanted to revel in it.

God, in his kindness, sent me that shower.  I wasn’t looking to be delighted; I was grasping for shadows of discontentment, yet God chose to delight me anyway.  How perfectly loving he is.

In their unexaggerated forms, all of those less-than-perfect things are still present in my life, but I don’t want to focus on them.  I want to spend my time rejoicing in the only perfect thing, my God, and treasuring every gift he sends.

On fear

Early one morning this week I received a frantic knock on my door.  I haphazardly fell out of bed and opened the door to find one of the girls sobbing in the hallway.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “I had a bad dream and I’m scared of monsters,” she managed between sobs.

            I gave her a hug and began to walk her back to bed.  I sat on the edge and began to talk to her.

            “You know what, L—?  Those monsters you’re afraid of, they aren’t real.  The devil wants you to think of them and be afraid because he loves it when you’re scared.  But God doesn’t want you to be scared.  That’s why he sent Jesus to conquer the devil and your fear.  Because Jesus came, we don’t have to be afraid anymore because he loves us and will protect us.  So let’s pray and ask God to give you peace and help you to sleep.”

            We prayed, I lent her a teddy bear to sleep with and then crawled back in bed myself.

            Since I’ve been back, fear has been popping up fairly frequently.  A little girl wanting to shimmy up the tether ball pole, but afraid of falling; one girl afraid of drowning in the pool; me being afraid that if the girls leave and I’m not there to watch them, they won’t be cared for; all of us being afraid of being left alone as teams and children come and go and a few of us stay behind.  As each of us encounters fears, we decide how to react, either to become paralyzed or to move forward in love by faith.

            I’ve noticed that most times our fears aren’t completely ridiculous, and as I work with the girls, I love letting them know that and showing them how to move forward even though their fears are real.  Take for example the girl who was afraid of drowning.  She didn’t know how to swim and the pool went over her head in a few spots.  Her fear of drowning was legitimate.  While I talked to her, I never said that her fear was silly and it was impossible for her to drown, but I reminded her that I, who knows how to swim, would be by her side the whole time, watching her.  This reassured her enough that she hopped in the pool and eventually even dared to join her friends who were a little farther away from me.

            As I look back at this example, I can’t help but think that God likes to treat us similarly.  My worries are many and various, and when I read my Bible and pray to God, I never hear him say, “These are unfounded fears, they couldn’t possibly happen.”  I hear him softly whisper in my ear, “Cast your burdens on me; I will never permit the righteous to be moved.”  He affirms their weight, but asks me to trust more in his power.  When he does this, he’s not simply asking me to believe that trials aren’t difficult or that they won’t come at all; he’s asking me to trust that his redeeming purpose in the midst of difficult circumstances can lend a sweetness to the bitter, a sweetness that surpasses and outlasts all bitterness.  God recognizes my susceptibility to fear and addresses it, not by dismissing it, but by encouraging me to grow through it.

            I won’t lie; recently watching seventeen kids leave the ranch over a two day period brought a plethora of fear into my life.  Some fears were new, some were old, but all were weighed and cared for by my God.  I can’t be sure that the kids will be safe and taught truth.  I have no way of knowing the exact details of their lives.  But I do know the One who ordains their lives, and I know that he is unfailingly good.  One day I may even have the chance to see or hear about these kids, and I know that even then, I may not be able to say, “Ahah!  I’ve found God’s goodness in this situation.”  The undeniable truth is that I am not God.  I will never be able to understand his ways or fathom his wisdom.  But that does not negate his goodness.

Letters from home and long ago

February 19, 2014

True to the way of this world, this week has brought a few more cares and trials along.  In an effort to "lay aside every weight and sin which clings so closely" so that I may "run with endurance the race that is set before [me], looking to Jesus the founder and perfecter of our faith," (Hebrews 12:1-2), I've been reviewing old letters.

Last fall when I ventured across the pond, some of my dear friends wrote me letters of encouragement in a journal, which I also brought with me to Mexico.  I've been rereading these precious words like a thriller novel because they're so full of encouragement that seemed to be written for these days of hardship.  Don't you just love how God inspires ordinary people to write things that will provide encouragement in a myriad of situations?  Such a joy is God's truth that it applies to all situations of life.  These letters addressed to some distant Renee that used to exist what seems like eons ago (every day lasts a year in Mexico, people.  I'm now an old lady.) apply to this frail Renee who can't bear to think about tomorrow, but who prays to God literally to just live through the day, even the next five minutes.

Today, I want to share with you all some encouragement I rediscovered in a letter from my dear friend, Abby.  I love every words of it.


"Dear Renee,

"This entry comes from something I wrote in my journal back in June while at the beach.  I was watching a dad with his little boys.  One was probably around 6 or 7 and the other 4 or 5.  The younger child clung to his dad as they played in the waves, but the older let go of his dad's hand after a few moments.  When they were both holding dad's hand, they were safe from the crashing waves.  The moment that the older boy let go he was unsteady on his feet and was [k]nocked around by the waves.  After a couple times of coming up spluttering, the boy reached for his dad.  The dad's hand was right there waiting for the boy to take it, wait[ing] so that he could take hold of the boy and finally lead him safely out of the water.

"I thought this was a cool picture of how God cares for us even when we try and do it ourselves.  Sometimes we can think that we can take the waves ourselves.  We can't.  We need to hold God's hand and he will bare us up with his everlasting strength.  I want to encourage you, Renee, to hold God's hand while you are here in France.  He will guide you.

"Proverbs 3:5-8 says: 'Trust in  the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.  Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.  It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones.'

"Know that the hand you hold is the Lord your God.  The one you fear and trust.  He will hold you against the waves.  He knows the waves you can handle and he will protect you from the ones that are too big.

"I am praying for you my dear friend!

"Abby"


"He knows the waves you can handle and he will protect you from the ones that are too big."  I love this sentence so much.  I feel as if the waves are battering me constantly, some old, some new.  I haven't drowned yet, but sometimes I wonder if I will soon.  Will a wave come that holds me under until I have no breath?  Or will the water shoved in my mouth with every wave finally fill my lungs?  I've found grace for yesterday and today, but can I make it through tomorrow?  What about the 98 tomorrows that will follow?

How easily have I forgotten the 6,977 yesterdays!  Each of those yesterdays, God was there, sustaining my every breath, sometimes lifting me above the waves, at other times holding my hand through the waves.

And what of the millions of yesterdays before I even existed?  The innumerable saints who have gone before me?  The God who escorted them by his divine hand into their eternal rest is grasping mine with an unrelenting grip!  No, the waves will not overtake me.