From Eyes of Grace: Part One

I really wasn't sure how it was going to go.

I felt like we were behind where we normally were for tech week, I felt like I hadn't led well enough, and I felt unsure if it would live up to all my expectations.

I've been doing She Reads Truth devos through Lent, but I stopped at the newest study because it was on a topic I didn't find that interesting: Miracles. They're cool and all, but they feel far away, stuck in a time forgotten by the age of science and medicine. While I knew that they could happen today, I typically approached them skeptically, if at all.

And yet, I felt a compelling to read some of the missed days on Wednesday morning. A few things struck me as I looked over the familiar stories from the Gospels: the way that people who experienced the miracles didn't always understand them, the strange rage that the religious leaders expressed when Jesus healed on the Sabbath, and how often Jesus responded to faith with healing. 

Part of the reason I'm skeptical is because I know it isn't that simple. Lack of healing is not a lack of faith. God's will for us often looks very different than ours. But there was an element of faith that I couldn't ignore.

It reminded me of some songs from Elevation Worship's newest album. There are lyrics like "I've seen you move/ you move the mountains/ and I believe/ I'll see you do it again." There are whole songs about God's blessing coming like the cloud in the Old Testament story that signified rain to the prophet. That song's chorus cries, "We receive your rain!"

So I prayed. About my stress, my doubts, my worries. Asking all the while that God would do not just what I expected, but more and beyond what I could imagine. I felt more peace at that moment, but it wasn't until a few hours later that it really hit me. I was going down the list of requests, praying as I drove to the show. Sound, lights, remembering lines, choreography, and then-- that God would be with them.

It floored me for some reason. God was going to be there. Present. His people would be gathered in His name, and He's promised to be with them. Of course it was going to be okay; the purpose of the whole show would be in the room in His people. 

I couldn't dismiss my fear no matter how hard I tried, yet in a moment He replaced it with faith. I felt Him with me there, and I knew He would be with us in every scene, every song.

And He was.

He was there as I watched my kids worship, as I felt the truth of the songs pulsing through my heart, as the Gospel drama gave me goosebumps. And He was there in the invitation. I felt it, so I prayed, "Please, move here. Move in this room. Bring people to life."

And He did. 

No, we can't measure things like this in terms of numbers. Success means only presenting the Gospel and letting God do the changing. But I saw God do miracles here, and it fills me with wonder. It fills me with hope because He is a good Father and He does move in wonderful and often unexpected ways.

And it fills me with love for the God who is with us and the people He gives us.

So, looking ahead with open hands, we receive Your rain. Do not what we expect, but what You will.

To the Guilty: War is Over

In light of my upcoming crazy summer of travel and the increasing itch to write, it's time to dust off this blog and pick it up again.

But I don't want to talk about travel or schedules or school. I want to talk about guilt.

Guilt. It's an ugly word, evoking nothing but negative feelings and downcast eyes. It's a weight strapped on our shoulders or hiding in our closets. 

It's something that I think I'm past over and over, but I've been realizing that it's far worse than I thought. I've carried guilt for most of my life. Sometimes over specific things I've done, but more often than not over things I haven't done. Over the kind of Christian I can't be, no matter how hard I try.

Growing up immersed in Christian culture, especially Southern Christian culture, we're made aware of guilt at a young age. This isn't all bad- we are sinners, and knowing that is part of how God saves us,

But there comes a point where it can be a bit dangerous. Where guilt becomes shame becomes legalism. As a kid, I was hyper-aware of what I should be doing, what I wasn't doing. I swung from extremes of guilt to extremes of self-righteousness, never sure where I should be. I grew up believing that, at best, God was disappointed with me, if not angry.

The point that I missed as a kid was that Jesus did not die to make me a good person. He died to bring me life. My salvation was never dependent on me.

Granted, to be a believer and have Christ within you will, inevitably, change you as it makes you more like Christ. And yes, there are certain things that teach us how to do that- discipleship, Bible study, worship. Our heart must match our hands, and vice versa. But the most that these things can ever do is orient us in the right direction because it is God Himself who does the changing.

When I don't make the cut, when I fail, when I run, when I choose myself over Him and over those around me- I tend to avoid Him because I fear that it will only make me feel guilty. I'm afraid He'll be disappointed that I'm such a mess...again.

But the God I find when I do come?

"Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that her warfare is ended, her iniquity is pardoned, that she has received from the Lord double for all her sins." 

This passage is in Isaiah chapter 40, and it comes after 39 chapters of chaos. Isaiah has been telling the people that because of their sin God will give them up to the Assyrians. In the end He will bring the remnant back and crush their captors, but it's going to hurt.. They're going to lose it all.

Yet in the midst of all this, after all they've done, He speaks peace. The Israelites don't know what's coming; they're still waiting for the Messiah, and He's feeling farther away than ever. But us? We've seen the fulfillment of the promise. Jesus has come and done as He said He would.

War is over.

We don't have to feel guilty for all we aren't. We don't have to punish ourselves for all that we are. God will never be disappointed in us because He knows us intimately-good and bad.

And He calls us to more than obedience out of fear of not being good enough. He never asked us to earn His love, His favor, or His grace. Because if we're His, He gives it regardless of us. He gives grace when we don't ask, love when we don't want it, favor when we least deserve it. And although our experience of these things-our ability to see them-may change based on our relationship with Him, God Himself does not change.

I can't pretend like I still don't feel guilty. It's so ingrained in my understanding of faith that it won't be rooted out overnight. But I know that there's freedom to be found. And it's a freedom that offers more than moralism and more than selfish hedonism- it's a freedom that offers Jesus Himself.

From Finding Dory: Home

So, I saw Finding Dory for the first time the other day and it low-key wrecked me. I mean, sitting-in-the-middle-of-a-crowd-sobbing kind of wrecked, and for all the right reasons. If you haven't seen it yet, maybe don't keep reading, but if you have (or you don't care) carry on.

 There comes a point at one of the climaxes where Dory is left completely alone. She doesn't know what to do. She's lost everything, including hope that she'll find her parents. But then, she sees the shells, and she remembers. She remembers her mom telling her as a kid to follow the shells if she couldn't find her way home. As she begins to follow the line, she sees lines of shells going out in all directions, all leading to a little home deep in the kelp.

And then the moment we've all been waiting for. In the distance, her parents appear, and when they see her, they run (er...swim?). They embrace her, telling her that they had stayed all these years, knowing she'd come back. Dory starts trying to apologize for losing them, for forgetting, and yet they won't hear any of it. She's home.

Isn't that us? We run from God. We forget Him. Sometimes we get so far we don't even remember what we lost in the first place, we only know that something's missing.

We don't know that He hasn't moved. We don't know that He's been active, pursuing us, leaving us reminders to come home. 

Home has always been an idea close to my heart. It's always been something I've studied and sought for and hungered for.
I think I've realized that there's home and there's Home. 
Our home can be plural, and it can be places or people. Lee is home for me. Bayside is home for me. My family is home. My church family is home. My roommates and my friends are home. They're places where I belong, where I'm known and seen and I have a role. Places where my heart and dreams are safe.

But, unlike Home, they're not perfect (and they don't have to be).

Because Home is one person, one place.
I'll know I'm home when I hear those words, "Well done, my good and faithful servant." Some people think they'll drop to their knees, or dance, or weep when they get there. But I think that maybe I'll run straight to Him because after all that time, I won't want to be apart ever again.

I know Christ is my home because He is the only one who knows me completely and loves me completely. He knows all the things I hide even from myself. He knows all the mistakes I've made, all the evil hidden within me. He was there for every moment of the darkest nights, and He was the only one who could bring me back into the light. He never runs, never fails, never leaves. He's more than I understand, more than I'll ever imagine, and sometimes it's hard to handle.

But I know that there's nowhere else where I belong perfectly because it's the place that I was created to be: with Him.  

Yet how often do I run Home, only to trip over my apologies for being away? How often do I forget His face, forget His words, forget His love? When I resurface from burying myself in busyness, why do I hide from the only One who can give me rest?

Maybe that's what life is, a constant being home and coming Home. Being a place for others to belong and seeking the One who you belong to. 

Where You Measure

During VBS, amidst all the rah, rah, rahs and the paper clips, we have a clear purpose; to tell the kids in our area about Jesus.

As a worker, Wednesday is an exciting day. It's the day we pile everyone in the sanctuary for the official Gospel presentation, and we give them a chance to respond. I missed it this year because I had to work, and so by the time I saw my co-leaders the first thing on my mind was to ask how it went.

Here's the thing: it's tempting to miss Jesus in the numbers. Not that there's anything wrong with counting-it can be so encouraging to hear the fruit of what God did this week-but there's a temptation when we measure success that way.

See, when we measure success by numbers, it's easy to think that if God doesn't move where you measure that He isn't moving at all. 

It's easy to think that if none of the kids in your group said they got saved that you didn't do enough. It's easy to keep the "better luck next year" mentality and write off the week as just "okay".

I say this because I do this. I get to Thursday night and I don't have any crazy amazing stories to tell and I wonder what went wrong.

But God's making me realize that I'm missing it.

What if He doesn't measure that way?
Whoever said that God works in ways we expect? (Plot twist: no one.)
I don't know what gave me the idea that He has to do exactly what I should do when and how I think He should do it. Last time I checked, He knows better than I do. Always.

Whether I see Him move or not doesn't change the fact that God is sovereign-and He's always moving. 

And to think I almost missed it. My team may not have a number for our success this week, but we have a girl who knows that I love her no matter how many times she jumps on my back when I'm not looking. We have a boy who knows that even though he's shy, Jesus sees him and knows him.

There are 18 kids whose lives I've had the honor to intersect with, and I'm foolish enough to forget that God knew exactly who would put on that pink or green name tag Monday. 

And if God is working here, why would He stop when they walk out the door tomorrow? Why would He stop when I walk into work Saturday morning?

He won't stop making all things for our good because He is good, and I choose to trust that He knows what He's doing. 

"Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well." (Psalm 139:14)

From We Believe: Week 1(ish)

So, this isn't actually the first week of rehearsal, but it's the first week I've found time to write about it, so we'll call it week one anyway. In case anyone hasn't seen my obnoxious instagram posts, I wrote a play for the student choir over Christmas break called We Believe, and now I'm helping direct it.

Without giving too much away, the play is sort of about the persecuted church, and since we all know that I can't think straight without writing it down first (#WriterProbs), I decided to try and write the pre-rehearsal devotions out and post them here. The theme of the devotions is going to be the persecuted church, but I wanted to go a step further and try to put ourselves in their shoes. To ask not just who they are, but why they keep doing this secret church thing, and how they hold up under such immensely difficult circumstances. 

So, for week 1(ish), the question is this:
 What does "brothers and sisters in Christ" mean to the persecuted church?

I'm afraid that the Western church has become more of a club and less of a family, so I want to get down to the roots and see what we're dealing with here. 

John 13 starts with a bunch of crazy stuff going on. Jesus washes the disciples' feet before they eat the Last Supper and find out that one of them (spoiler alert: it's Judas) is going to betray Jesus. All of them begin to feel that time is running out, and the words Jesus says here are nearly His last words, the last things He believes they need to know before the climax of history takes place.

Then Jesus drops a bombshell; He's leaving, and where He's going is a place they can't follow. Yikes. After all these years and all of the amazing things He's done, He's going to have to go. So what does He tell them next? 

"A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another:just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."  (John 13:34-35)

Basically, "It's time for me to get to business; don't run out on each other. Take care of each other. You're going to need these guys." On this final night, He tells them to love the church like Jesus Himself loves them. Not only that, but when everything goes down, people are going to know that these guys were with Jesus not by their cool beards or the miracles they'll do, but by the fact that they really love the people around them.  

Jump to Acts, and we see an example of what Jesus was talking about. The followers of "the Way" were gathering together, sharing meals, sharing possessions, meeting regularly, participating in each other's lives. The society around them was confused, and they actually thought sketchy stuff was going on because they just couldn't understand why these people loved each other so, so much. 

Fast forward to modern day, in the country of Azerbaijan.

(This story is from this post on Open Doors's website.)
There's a 15-year-old boy named Shirin living on the streets because his parents forced him to choose between Jesus and his family, and He chose Christ. A Christian man found him and took him in, and soon after his parents were arrested for drug use. Now he's witnessing to the very people that sent him away, and it's because the man that saw him considered him family when Shirin had no one. 

To so many believers overseas who have stories similar to this one (and there are a ton), "brothers and sisters" takes on a whole new meaning. People give up their families for Jesus, and the church becomes family. They care for each other. They trust each other, not just to show up for Bible study, but to risk their lives to meet in secret house churches. The poor have enough because these Christians are living out the Acts church, sharing what they have for the sake of their brothers and sisters and for the sake of the Gospel. 

What if our churches looked like that? 
What if we stopped arguing about the color of the carpet and started encouraging each other in the faith?
What if we stopped spending all our time worrying about who's-dating-who and who-offended-who and banded together as family?
What if we started caring more about each other than about ourselves?

Isn't church as it was meant to be a picture of the Gospel? The orphans have found a home. The poor have been welcomed into the King's throne room. There's no distinction between people because we've all been redeemed and adopted by our good, good Father. 

I don't know about you, but I want to love people like that. 

From Rend Collective: Choosing Celebration

When people ask me about Rend Collective, I always describe them as Irish sunshine. After seeing them for the second time at Lee tonight, I stand by that description firmly. 

I discovered them with "Art of Celebration", and I was mesmerized by the way they knew how to capture joy in songs. The album literally sounded like what I imagine celebration to be. Their lyrics were real, their sound was energetic, and I'm a not-so-secret Irish fanatic (hence the Claddagh ring I got for my 18th birthday). 

I was hooked, and so when "As Family We Go" was under my Christmas tree a week before I would see them perform at Passion and three weeks before they would be at Lee, I broke into my happy dance. (Not literally. I don't dance.)

As I stood in the Conn Center smiling like a kid at Disney World while they jumped around stage, the thought struck me that more than anything, I wish I had that kind of joy. I wish I believed and loved God so much that it exploded out of me. 

Not to put them on a pedestal because I know that's the last thing they'd want, but I saw in them real, true, lasting joy, and I was hungry for it. I am hungry for it. 

I'll say now that I'm writing this to figure it out, not because I have figured it out. I've glimpsed joy and I'm trying to find a way to hold on. 

About midway through "Joy of the Lord", God dropped a verse into my heart. 

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart."         (Psalm 37:4)

Now, I tend to think this verse is similar to C.S. Lewis's interpretation of telling the pure in heart they will see God. David can say that if you delight in the Lord He'll give you the desire of your heart because at that point He will be the desire of your heart, so He'll give you more of Himself. He'll give you His desires, making them yours, and then He will fulfill them. 

When this happened my emotions reacted, but I still wasn't sure exactly what it meant. I was glad to have a clear verse of what God was trying to tell me, but I didn't know how to apply it. I don't delight in the Lord like I used to, and I don't know how to get back to that place when I'm such a different person than I was then. 

Then, after several Lucky Charms jokes and a joke about how it always rains in Ireland (it always rains in Cleveland, too), one of the band members said this:

"We realized celebration is an art. You have to choose it."

Whoa. 

I'd heard of choosing joy before, but I'd never given it much thought. Yeah, I did Ann Voskamp's 1,000 gifts things, and that was nice, but what was the big deal? What does it mean to choose celebration? 

What if delighting yourself in the Lord is choosing to celebrate what He has done and who He is? 
What if it means fighting self-centeredness  by choosing to seek the Lord until you're in awe of what you see? 
What if it means rejoicing always, even (and especially) when it's the absolute last thing in the world you want? 

And when my doubts say that it can't be that easy, I remember what Christine Caine said at Passion, that so many of us are sitting in jail cells with open doors and unlocked chains simply because we won't get up and accept that Christ has already made us free, and there's nothing for us to earn. 

What if choosing celebration is giving up the right you think you have to be grumpy, or angry, or selfish, and instead remembering that Christ has paid so, so much for you to be able to choose joy. Maybe it's remembering that we have much to celebrate. 

Jesus is risen. He holds the keys to death and sin and shame and every single thing that you think enslaves you. You've been made free. And free for what? A glorious purpose on earth and a beautiful inheritance in Heaven. We have the work of knowing Him and making Him known, and then when we're done, we get to go home. 

Home. 

We'll open our eyes truly for the first time and see the face of the One we've served and sought for so long, and we'll hopefully hear those words, "well done, my good and faithful servant." We'll get to rest. All those voices in our heads that lie to us will be silenced, once and for all, by the voice of all nations singing the praise of our Father. I've felt glimpses on earth of what Heaven must be like, and it's only a dim, distorted shadow of what the real thing must be. 

So yeah, what do I really have to complain about? 

I'm headed home, and I'm never alone. 

That's worth celebrating.

 

To 2016: The Next Right Thing

Going into this new year, the one thing I've realized is that I have no idea how I got here. This time last year I was in such a different place and I was such a different person that I don't think I would recognize myself now. Everything I had planned changed. I changed.

Honestly, if I had the opportunity to tell 2014 me what was coming, I would have said "Good luck" and run the other way. Had I known what this year held, I probably would have freaked out and decided to build a tiny house and live in the woods (sometimes I still want to do that).

I'm going into this new year having lost so much. This has been one long year of grief and change.

Last year I would have said "but I have Christ so everything will be okay!" That's somewhat true, but it isn't what I would say now.

My relationship with God has changed drastically. And by changed drastically, I mean that I was incredibly close to Him, then incredibly angry with Him, and then that repeated for about 12 months. Lots of fun. Where I'm at now is not anywhere close to where I want to be, but it's closer than it was Monday morning, so I have hope.

I have hope because after hitting the bottom so many times I'm starting to get it- He's the only thing worth hoping in. 

There came a point where I truly had nothing left, and it was there I saw Him. It was there I realized that all this time I was running, but God had never moved. 

I know that's oversimplified because the fact that God is always here doesn't change how painful it is to feel like He isn't. The point, though, is that all those things I chased never once filled me up. They could mask the pain, they could make me forget, but they could never satisfy.

But I do have hope. Even though all my problems won't disappear when the clock strikes midnight, I have hope because God won't disappear either.  

I don't need resolutions, because I'm fooling myself if I think I really know what's coming. I'm learning how to be okay with not knowing. All I can do is seek those "next right things" and keep moving in the right direction. 

I'm slowly realizing that life is made one choice at a time. One moment at a time. The only place I'm given to encounter God is now. The only place I'm given to encounter people is now. The only place I'm given to do what's right is now. 

So, yes, I have some big things coming up. I'm starting 2nd semester. I'm directing a play I wrote. I'm searching for a job. But the goal in all of those is to learn the art of just being. To "be" in a moment is to be awake, present, to risk getting out of my head and encountering someone else. 

2016 is almost here. It's time to wake up. To start over. To become new-one step at a time.

From Hamlet: A Christmas Story

I'm a bit obsessed with Hamlet. I'm not a huge Shakespeare fan (bad English major, I know), but the character of Hamlet has always drawn me in. I even wrote my final English paper about it-meaning I chose to read Shakespeare for fun.

I think part of what attracts me is the tragedy of Hamlet himself. He's lost everything, including, possibly, his sanity. He's so full of pain, and something in me feels that with him. It's like when most people get involved with a good show and start to empathize with the characters, which is normal.

But I feel pain strongest. I like to write sad stories. I like sad songs. I'm not sadistic, it just feels real. Something in me knows that the emotions are real even if the stories aren't. 

It's like I know that a vein of hurt runs just under the surface of this world, and when I tap into it, I find something that connects.

Hurt is not a stranger to us, to any of us. We all know pain, regardless of the fact that it's different from situation to situation. That's why my Instagram feed was flooded with #PrayForParis. That's why Chattanooga still talks about what happened last summer. No matter how strong your personal empathy is, we connect through pain.

This is not always a bad thing. It leads to support. It leads to closeness.

But too much of one thing is a bad thing. What goes in, comes out, and if all you have is tragedy coming in, it begins to mess with you. It starts wiring itself into your thoughts, and then your heart, and then your hands. It distorts your view of the world. It makes you feel like pain is all there is to feel, and anything else must be fake. 

Listening to the frequency of hurt can actually cause more pain. It makes you fear that those things will happen to you. Which makes you fear loss. Which keeps you from connecting to people. Which destroys the good thing that can come from pain and makes you more selfish. I know because I've been there. I've become so accustomed to it that I begin to expect bad things to happen, which has made me into someone I never wanted to be.

So my question, then, is if there is a vein of hurt, is there also a vein of hope? If we tuned into one for too long, the only option is to find something else to fill up with. Shutting everything out makes us empty, but to be human is to feel. So where is hope found? How do we balance it out?

If you listen for hope right now, there's an obvious answer: Christmas.

Even people who refuse to step foot in a church acknowledge that Christmas is a time for peace, joy, hope. Christmas is a rest, a season of hitting pause and seeking those things that we consider make life beautiful. Family. Giving. Light.

But, as someone who has kept Christmas lights up until June, I know full well that warm feelings and gift wrap can only go so far. Memories, although good things, aren't enough to sustain it. So we have to dig deeper, to listen more closely, and find where it comes from.

Linus can give you a speech about it, but I'll give you one word: Emmanuel. God. With. Us.

We can't find hope within ourselves, no matter how many Dr. Phils and motivational cat posters you have. So we look outside ourselves, we look up. And when we look up, we see that hope is not just there, it's under our noses. Why?

Because God has stepped in. 
He stepped into a stable in Bethlehem, and He's still stepping into our lives today.

He's stepping in when we have too much to do, too many responsibilities to balance and personalities to placate and He's telling us: Rest.

He's stepping in when our minds are at war with our hearts, when, as Hamlet says, "Within my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep," and He says it again: Rest. 

He's stepping in when we've looked to our family and our friends and our work and our hearts and nothing satisfies, nothing stops the pain, and He proclaims it over us: Rest.

He can proclaim Rest because He holds time, space, and every detail of every bit of existence in His hands. And when we look at what He holds we see that He already holds everything we feel like we've lost. We can rest because when we look closely, He holds us. 

It sounds so simple, but rest is so hard to learn. Mike Donehey of Tenth Avenue North often says that we must fight to rest, though it sounds like a contradiction. He's right.

There will be times that everything around you and everything in you is telling you to freak out. They'll have really good reasons and sometimes they'll call it good things, like "handling it" or "just making sure everything gets done." But what does it matter if everything gets done at the cost of you coming undone?

It's in these times that we must choose rest. And sometimes that looks like saying, "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how this is going to work. But You know what You're doing, and it's going to be okay." It may not feel like peace; it may feel like defeat. But maybe every time we choose not to panic, but to trust, it's tapping into that vein of hope. It's learning a little better how to hear the frequency, though it may seem faint.

There's a lot of unrest in me. I can't pretend like I'm not preaching to myself. I have a whole lot of questions, and a ridiculously small amount of answers. I write this because I'm listening in, trying to find what I'm looking for.

But I've got a feeling it can be found.

From Tomorrow

There are certain organizations that I believe in and admire whole-heartedly. Compassion, in case you haven't figured it out yet, is one of them. One of the others is To Write Love On Her Arms, "a nonprofit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide."

Today is the climax of a campaign they're calling "We'll See You Tomorrow," intended to highlight World Suicide Prevention Day. 

"Hope always involves tomorrow. It’s choosing to believe that things can change, that tomorrow can look different than today." (Read more here.)

Due to being an unemployed college student, I can't give financially, so I'll give what I have: my story. 

You'll see me tomorrow because I know what it is to not want tomorrow. I've felt the pain that comes from losing hope, from feeling like the weight on your chest is all you'll ever know. I've been trapped in that endless night, and I can say one thing; I would give anything so someone else doesn't have to do that alone. 

You'll see me tomorrow because I know I'm not the only one. I know there are a countless number of silent sufferers who think that they are the only ones that feel that way. I'm here to tell you that sometimes the brightest smiles hide the darkest lives. I know how scary it can be when you know that no one really knows you, and I'm here to tell you, yes, you, that I see you. I understand. You don't have to hide. It will be difficult, but if you'll let someone else in on your hurt, they won't run, no matter what those voices are telling you. Hurting is not something to be ashamed of, because chances are they're hurting, too. 

You'll see me tomorrow because tomorrow is not an accident. We talked about it in Bible study last night, and it's true, God does not give us accidental days. He's not that teacher interested in busy work. He could have saved us and taken us to Heaven right that second, but He didn't. Each morning that you wake up He has a purpose for that day. It's sounds cliched, but I beg you to believe it's true, your life is not worthless. It's not pointless. The lies that tell you that it is are just that-lies. 

You'll see me tomorrow because tomorrow does not belong to me. I fully believe that a big part of God's purpose not just for my life, but specifically for my pain, is so that it would help someone else. See, my tomorrow is not mine-it belongs to every person I encounter. That woman that dropped her papers. That little girl that just wanted someone to notice her. Those dozens of little influences and those special few pivotal moments. If my tomorrow helps someone else hold onto theirs, then it is a life well spent.

You'll see me tomorrow because Christ bought my tomorrow. See, my darkness was too heavy for me so Christ took it upon himself and he defeated it. Even though it feels insurmountable, my depression is a guest, and one day it'll be kicked out for good because Christ used His own blood to buy my freedom. He bought me, and all my tomorrows, and I am His. Philippians 1:6 says that He will finish what He started, which means that even though I can't see my tomorrow, He already has and it is secure. 

If you can't see your tomorrow, please know this:
You are not alone. 
You are not an accident.
You are seen and known. 
This, too, shall pass.
Christ will carry you through. 

I'll finish up with the quote that started it all. 

“Above all else, we choose to stay. We choose to fight the darkness and the sadness, to fight the questions and the lies and the myth of all that’s missing. We choose to stay, because we are stories still going. Because there is still some time for things to turn around, time for surprises and for change. We stay because no one else can play our part.

Life is worth living.

We’ll see you tomorrow."

 

From Summer 2015: Heavy and Light

I've been meaning to blog all summer as things happen, but life was too busy, well, happening. Then I was going to write a highlight reel of sorts, but I'm learning that part of honesty is acknowledging that life is not always easy. It sounds so simple, but it's much more fun to share about the beach and mountaintop experiences than the dark places that filled in the gaps between, and sometimes I think that's really what people need to hear, anyway.

So here's my summer, good and bad, heavy and light.

Heavy

• College is coming, and coming fast. Sometimes in the midst of the best parts of this summer I would be reminded of what was coming and it was like a sudden weight dropped on my chest. Anxiety would pile on until I had to remind myself to breathe. 
• Doubt has been plaguing me this summer. Everything changing has left my defenses down, and the enemy has been constantly whispering questions in my ear. My faith has been shaken from the ground up, and it's left me feeling unsteady to say the least. 
• Especially right after or right before an event, despair has weighed pretty heavy on my heart. From general discouragement to wanting to curl up under a blanket and forget the world, my emotions have not been on my side. 
• God has felt distant at times. Partly because of the previous point, it's like a fog will settle in front of Him and I just can't seem to grasp Him. I know He's there, but He seems out of reach or silent. Nothing feels so hopeless as wanting God and feeling like you can't get to Him. 
• Leaving my job, and missing it so much more than I imagined. 
• The more I learn, the more I realize I have so much farther to go, and while that can be liberating, it can also be extremely frustrating.
• It's far too easy to get caught up in who you aren't and forget whose you are.
• Goodbyes are hard, even temporary ones. 

Light

• Mission Ohio: We set out with a fairly definite set of plans, and we ended up doing almost none of them-and it was great. I got stretched into speaking to a bit bigger crowd than I was expecting (right, Jadyn?), and realizing that the Gospel really is enough for all people, even if it's told differently. Some of the highlights were the small moments. Pushing a lady named Gloria up to her room in the nursing home. Six girls and my youth pastor in a Suburban talking about everything from iPhones to quiet times .This was the first taste of what became the theme of my summer: community.
  
• Movie Nights/ Taco Bell runs: Seriously, as much as I mess around, I love you group of girls I've gotten to hang out with this summer. It doesn't matter that you're younger than me, watching movies and eating Taco Bell will be cherished memories for me forever. I have laughed with you guys and discussed some of the hard stuff with you guys, and you have a special place in my heart. Jason, Rick, Oscar, Gracie, and the rest of you who've been in and out: thank you. I love you, you pretty blossom queens. ;) 
  
• Riverbend: *tries not to go super-fan* Tenth Avenue North-you changed my life. I went to my first concert in 6th grade, and since then your music has come along at the exact right time for every season. If time permitted, I'd write a whole blog post just for you. Tenth Ave has been that voice of reassurance I need so frequently: I am known and loved by God, and the church matters (see, there's that community thing again.) Standing in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd with my brothers and sisters at the front of the stage (with Mr. Mike Donehey TWO FEET AWAY) singing "Stars in the Night" as the sun set over the Tennessee River- yeah, that's what I imagine Heaven will be a lot like. Also, not to be forgotten, Matthew West reminded us that it's never too late to start at day one because we are a new creation in Christ, and our stories- my story, your story- they matter. 
  
• VBS: I struggled a bit going into VBS this year, and when I asked God for guidance He gave me a phrase: "Look low. Love the least of these." I'll be honest, I had some kids in my group this year that were pretty hard to love. My self wanted to ignore them and hang out with the "more fun" kids. But God kept reminding me that these are the kids He died for. Some of these kids had been ignored or abandoned everywhere else, and they needed to see that they would not be abandoned here, not by Him. That week could have been the turning point, the day their name changed to "Child of the One True King" (thanks Matthew West). And this past Sunday as I watched one of those sweet girls in my group get baptized I remembered, yeah, God is good. 
  
• Senior Trip: Aside from a couple of mission trips (or maybe "alongside"), this was my favorite trip ever. I was drowning in community and loving every single second of it. Aside from the fact that we got to spend the whole week lounging at the beach and, for me, turning into a human lobster, I just love you guys a lot. It's been a long road for some of us, and this just felt like that perfect breath before life gets crazy again. I don't think anything will ever compare to that moment where we were playing volleyball in the kitchen while "You Are the Music in Me" blasted over the speaker and I tried not to cry. I came home feeling loved and refreshed, reassured that if this was community then college might be okay, and wondering how on earth we all ended up talking like Laura. #Nugget
  
• Family Vacation: I'm not usually sappy when it comes to family, so I'll try to keep it simple so no one cries ;). I had so much fun with you guys. I needed those times with you. I love you, a lot, and I don't say it enough. God really showed me that week that there is always more light to be seen. I never thought I'd love riding in a too-big truck named Turk, eating donuts, learning the shoe lady's life story, or joking around with the guy at Journey's (shhhh, Ben). There are a lot of other beautiful things I could say, but I'll save them for when I'm not moving out in a couple of days. 
  
• Stars: I have hardcore fallen in love with stars this summer. So far I've seen them from five different states this summer, and they just take my breath away like they never did before. When I stepped out onto the sand that first night of senior trip and saw the stars stretching as far as I could see, only hidden by where the ocean met the sky, I wanted to drop to my knees then and there. See, He calls them out by name- every one of them- and surely He must be able to take care of my little life. And to my friend who knows waaay more about space than I ever will, thanks for waking me up to all the hardcore beautiful stuff out there. 
• Adrienne: Hey, Watson. This goes without saying, but I love you more than I can say. Even though I haven't seen you quite as much this summer, our coffee dates, shopping trips, hibachi/Netflix nights, and all that other random crap we do means the world to me. You're one of the few that has always been there, and for that I'll never be able to say thank you enough. So for eating food with me, laughing at my stupid jokes, watching my wreck of a dog, and everything in between: mbleh. 
  
• Opening Up: God's been doing a lot even in what seemed like silence, and I've finally starting talking about some of the stuff that I've been dealing with for a long time. Sometimes healing starts with just knowing someone out there is on your side. Thanks for listening.
• PrayZchoir retreat: This year was different. I was chaperoning, and it took a while to figure out where I fit. Turns out the answer is the same as it usually is- love like Christ. The will of God isn't always big, "go to Asia" revelations. Turns out it's a lot of telling middle schoolers that they matter and getting outside of your head to see that this world needs a lot of love, and there's only one place that will truly fill that need: the arms of Christ. 
  

So this summer, it wasn't easy. But it wasn't all bad. I have found the depths of pain and the heights of joy and maybe Vanauken was right to refuse to take the easy middle way. I'm still learning. I'm still fighting to breathe, but one thing I know is that this summer was not an accident, and this year will not be one either. We only have to take it one step at a time, one moment, one choice to love, once choice to live like Christ, and in the end we'll have plenty to write about. 

And I choose to write it, because my story matters. My story matters because thanks to Christ, my story is so much bigger than me. I am connected to His plan and His church and He has a part for me to play. 

So to anyone who feels like life is just too heavy: hold on. Hold out. I promise, the light will come. And in the meantime, know you are not alone. We understand. We're all made of heavy and light, and we need community to pull through. Don't be afraid to need and you'll never walk alone. God is with you, we are with you, and "His love will lead us through the fight like stars in the night."

BONUS:

In case this post wasn't long enough already, here's my summer soundtrack.

Owl City- Mobile Orchestra 

For King and Country- Run Wild. Live Free. Love Strong.

Tenth Avenue North- Cathedrals 

Walk the Moon- "Shut Up and Dance"

Crowder- Neon Steeple 

From the Supreme Court

My heart is broken and, to be honest, I'm a little angry, but not with the Supreme Court. This is no longer a Christian nation, and I don't expect our government to make Biblical decisions. 

But, as much as I don't like to say it, I'm upset with the church. Not my church specifically, but not excluding it. The American Church as a whole is making some huge mistakes, and they're reaching much farther than we'd expect. 

This is not about whether homosexuality is right or wrong. That's not a question for me. The Bible is the ultimate authority and it's far more straightforward than some would have us believe. God made marriage to work one way, and it's automatically the best way because He made it. Anything else is an affront to His authority and it's sin, plain and simple. 

My problem is that we've stopped right there and used the beautiful truth of God's Word as a weapon to hurt the very people Jesus came to save. We've decided that because the LGBT community is celebrating sin that we can do whatever it takes to make sure they know the truth. And can I tell you something? They know. They know what we have to say. They know where we stand. That's no longer the issue. 

The issue is that we're attacking lost people...for acting like lost people. We expect them to live up to our moral standards without ever having their hearts changed by Christ. 

These are people we're talking about. They're not a faceless mass. They have names, hearts, stories, fears, dreams. These are people that have grown up feeling rejected, isolated, lonely, attacked, misunderstood, unknowable, unloved. These are the very people that Christ came to save. 

And now you and I, the children of God, the ones who should have the most motivation to love these people, we're the ones throwing stones. 

In John 8 we see Jesus's encounter with the woman caught in adultery. He doesn't start out by spelling out what she's done wrong and how dirty this makes her. I'm sure in the midst of the religious Pharisees she already feels dirty enough. 

No, with some writing in the dirt and a single sentence He sends her accusers away. "Let him who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her." 

Not one man is left. And then He tells her to go and sin no more. 

I'm not saying that Christ will just casually love you and let you chill in your homosexuality. But He won't let me stay in my lying, in my unforgiveness, in my rebellious heart. 

He loves you and I so powerfully that He will make us His, call us loved, and then begin making us more like Him. 

This Supreme Court decision is one of the greatest opportunities this church will have to minister to the LGBT people. They're watching us, seeing how we react. And unfortunately most of them are seeing that this Jesus we're supposed to be representing is not anyone they'd be interested in. 

When they look at our facebook posts and hear our conversations, they see a "Jesus" that is disgusted by them. That hates them. That thinks they are the scum of the earth, the downfall of the entire country. 

That's not my Jesus. That's not the Jesus of the Bible. 

Because the Jesus I know, the One that I love and trust to save my life, He died for me while I was still a sinner. He takes me back after my every rebellion, and breaks the strongholds of sin in my life. He comforts me when I'm lonely. He gives me wisdom, grace, infinite mercy. The Jesus I know is a good Father, a righteous Judge, a perfect Counselor, a faithful Friend. 

So to anyone who's been hurt by the church's response, I'm sorry. We are nothing more than sinners saved by grace, and He's still working on us. We don't always get it right, and our sin has hurt you. But know that Jesus won't fail you or hurt you. Know that He'll take you in right where you are. You don't have to clean up for Him. Know that He loves you immensely, infinitely, and unconditionally. He can and will save you. Yes, you will change, but only because He knows what's best for you. And He'll walk with you through it. I promise that if you get to know Jesus for who the Bible says He is, you'll see that He's the answer to everything you've been searching for. All your wounds can be healed. Your loneliness and pain redeemed. He sees you and knows you. You matter to him. 

And, although it may take some courage, come to the church. You'll realize that we're not perfect, but He is, and He'll help us love each other. We want you to live life with us. We want you to help us be more compassionate. The church is not for super-Christians, it's for the broken who need God (P.S. That's all of us), regardless of your past or your struggles. I think you'll realize that we're not so different. 

And to the church, know that I love you. I love the church. This is not a bash-the-church post. The church is chosen by God as His means of reaching the nations. I only aim to encourage you when I say that we've messed up, but God is greater than our weakness. He uses it. And He will not abandon us now. As He has been faithful, He will be faithful. We need to show people who Christ is. We have brothers and sisters who haven't been adopted yet, and they have to be told that their Father loves them. 

Because, friends, we're going home. And when we get to Heaven, we'll see that God's church is not limited to us conservative, middle-class Southerners. The church is simply those who have been made alive by Christ. And if His family isn't divided there, why can't we reach across borders here and live out the love that we've been given?

Christ is enough for us. All of us. 

From the Lamps

Let me just get this out of the way: this post is not about being the light of the world. It's not about evangelism at all. I know what the title makes you think. But sometimes you need a flashlight pointed at yourself before you need a lamp stand. 

The light bulb in my snazzy chevron lamp on my nightstand burnt out last week. As did 3 of my 5 bulbs in my floor lamp and all but one of the bulbs over my bathroom mirror.

So here's a list (who doesn't love lists?) of the things I've learned from my lamps this week. (And by this week I mean like a month ago when I wrote this post.)

1. Shadows get a lot scarier with one light bulb than with five. The yellow on my bathroom walls went from looking like sunshine to looking like sketchy motel.
2. Changing light bulbs can be dangerous. Apparently if you twist too hard they shatter in your hand and you end up bleeding all over your How to Train Your Dragon bandaids. 
3. Going to bed early is not nearly as enjoyable without a lamp. It means no late night reading and a lot more sitting in the dark over-thinking every decision you've ever made.

That was the funny part of the post. I hope you enjoyed it. Now let's dive in. 

Here's what I really learned from my lamps this week. 

1. Community matters. Yes, there are a lot of things that are just between you and God, and time alone with Him is important to your relationship with Him. But without people around you that are seeking Christ, you get burnt out. Discouraged. It's a lot harder to radically follow Christ without reminders that other people are doing that, too. No community is just as dangerous as bad community. It's easier to tell when your friends are pushing you down the wrong path than to realize when you've wandered down the wrong path alone. That being said, the company you keep is typically the direction you're going. Yes, we're supposed to love all people because Christ came for the sick and broken, but if you're only around those who are walking in darkness, it gets a lot harder to remember what the light is like. More light is better.
2. Change is painful-and necessary. If you're walking in the wrong direction, no amount of good thinking is going to make it right. You have to turn around. More than just deciding where you're walking to, you have to make sure that you're walking away from the things that got you stuck on the wrong path in the first place. C.S. Lewis said in The Great Divorce, "If we insist on keeping Hell (or even earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall not be able to retain even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell." Following Christ means ditching all the things that He says to get rid of, which is much easier said than done. The things in our lives aren't always bad in themselves, but James says we can't serve two masters, and if our phones, our shows, our friends, or ourselves are eating all of our time, what's really important to us? We can have all these things, but when we think we can have them all and still grow closer to God, we're fooling ourselves. Growth involves moving, and we can't move two directions at once. 
3. Darkness doesn't lead to clarity; only light can do that. I have this nasty addiction to trying to solve all of my own problems on my own. The problem is, I don't have the answers. I don't know how to do this best. I screw up, and no amount of thinking about a problem or messing around with it is going to fix it. I need an outside perspective, and there's only One who actually does have all the info-the One who wrote our days before we took our first breath. He can handle your problems. He can handle mine. He sees it all so naturally He knows how to fix it. Your heart will lie to you and your mind will run into roadblocks but He is Truth itself and He never meets a dead end. And friends? He cares. He wants to help. He is eternally invested in us, and He is devoted to taking us down the right path. We can trust Him. 

I can write these things because I've gotten them all wrong at some point or another. I've messed it all up, and He's still working on me, but little by little the light is starting to filter in. I'm trusting in the promise that He who started this work in me will be faithful to complete it. 

When God Kneels

Maybe the only way to stay sane is to stay small.

Maybe the only way to keep from drowning in just how heavy life is is to kneel down and curl up in His arms and just let yourself be held. 

It's easy to write but hard to do. Because me, I want to fix things. I want to come out swinging and just knock my hurt into next week.

I'm tired, but I don't want to rest. 

I went for a walk. I was giving up, resigned to be hopeless, when I saw it. 

I nearly stepped on it, the cross. It wasn't hanging from a silver chain or mounted on the wall or plastered across an ornate mural. 

It was just two thin twigs lying in the dirt. 

The thought hit me, that maybe the cross was found looking low. Looking in the dirt, in the uneventful, in the ignored. 

It's both humorous and utterly frustrating how we always miss the things right under our noses. 

I'd read it in John 13 a million times.

Jesus knows that the clock is ticking on His earthly ministry, and as He looks around at the disciples gathered to eat, I can't help but wonder if He pictures what He knows is coming. If He hears Peter's denial ringing in His ears. If He sees Judas with the mob at his back. If He looks at John and sees the disciple He loves sitting with His mother at the foot of the cross.

"Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper." (v. 3)

He grabs a bowl of water and a towel and kneels in front of these 12 men that He'd spent years pouring into and begins to wash their feet.

We can guess how that felt by Peter's words, "You shall never wash my feet." This isn't defiance. Peter knows who Jesus is. He'd confessed earlier that he was certain that Jesus was the Son of God. Peter had watched Him heal the sick, bring the dead to life, cast out demons.

Peter was notorious for speaking and acting rashly, but he knew the truth.
He knew that this Jesus was way too big, too holy, too powerful, too more to kneel in front of him and touch his feet.
He knew that his feet were too grimy, too filthy, too unworthy, too terribly human to be touched by this God he loved.

See, Peter was faced with the same thing we are: in the face of a perfect God our heart becomes painfully aware of just how low we are. 

God is light, and light illuminates everything- yes, everything. The more we see Him, the more we see ourselves, and it's not a pretty picture.
John Piper once described it as stepping into the sun only to realize that the precious broach that we've kept so close to our heart is revealed to be nothing but a disgusting roach.

Our righteousness is filthy rags to Him and the thought of such perfection touching such depravity is, if we think about it, offensive.

When we imagine Him kneeling before us, we're right to echo Peter. How can He do that? How can that be okay? How dare depravity and perfection meet? 

I find myself continually caught up in the utter strangeness of it all. Where pride is one end of the spectrum, the opposite extreme is equally distressing. Don't touch us, God, we're too dirty. You're too good for us.

And yet, when my face was stuck searching the sky for some justification to this offensive Gospel, I looked down. Where a month before a cross had been at my feet, this time I looked down from the balcony to see Jesus kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane.

True, this Jesus was a little kid in sneakers and the garden was made of fake potted plants they had pulled on stage as props, but the story it represented was striking.

He was praying for us. A few chapters later in John 17, in the middle of the darkest night in history, human anxiety so powerful that He sweated blood, Jesus knelt again, praying for our courage and safety.

Again and again I see Him kneeling and my heart begs for the answer to the question. Why? How could He stoop so low? 

I'll let you in on a strange secret I've learned recently;
when we're searching for answers...the answer is Him. It's always Him. 

And I know it sounds cheesy and it sounds too simple but if there's one thing I believe to my core, one thing I'll stake my life on, it's that He is the only answer to that thing you're searching for- and everybody is searching.

It's that itch in the center of you that drives some to be rich and some to be poor and some to buy expensive cars and some to date as many people as they can find. It's that thing that makes you feel lonely in a crowded room and that feeling you get when you see beautiful things.

If you only read one thing in this whole post, read this: That thing you're chasing, that thing you're looking for, it can be found. And His name is Jesus. 

And this Jesus is the One that kneels at your feet and says, "I love you in the midst of your mess and I will not leave you in your mess. I am not afraid of your dirtiness, and I will make you cleaner than you ever thought you could be. I don't ask you to wash your own feet or pay me to heal you. You can't fix yourself and all the money in the world cannot touch this lifelong build up of filth.

The good news, though, is that I am entirely, perfectly clean, and I'll take your dirt on myself. I will make myself filthy so you can be clean, and if I choose to make you new then nothing in all existence can stop me. Let me love you."

Because this perfect, holy, gigantic God dares stoop to clean my feet, there is hope for me. 

As much as I try, I can't make myself good. I can't make God love me. I can't pay God back for all He's done for me. He is good regardless of me, and thankfully His love is not dependent on mine. 

So when you're overwhelmed by your sin and by this world, look at Him. He's waiting patiently and He'll save powerfully. He paid the ultimate price so that He could love you until it hurts-and then keep loving you for all eternity.

So come home. Be loved. Be welcomed as a child. Let Him lavish His scandalous grace on you and He will hold you close.

"I will make a covenant of peace with them. It shall be an everlasting covenant with them. And I will set them in their land and multiply them, and will set my sanctuary in their midst forevermore. My dwelling place shall be with them, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people."-Ezekiel 37:26-27 

(The underlined links are scripture references, by the way.) 

Surrendered and Sold Out

This week is what we in the student choir world semi-lovingly refer to as "tech week" for our upcoming musical. It's our last minute learning lines, blocking, choreography, etc, before the show, and it has a reputation for getting a bit...hectic. And honestly? It's one of my favorite weeks of the year. 

But as I get older (this is my 7th year), it gets easier and easier to, well, get over it. Stand here, say this, snap on beat, don't fall down the stairs, don't grab cookies right before your scene, I get it. It can be more than just tempting to come in, do your thing, but never really mean any of it. Coasting can become natural. 

Especially now, I tend to worry all day long and take a quick break to recite scripture in a microphone before going right back to stressing over graduation, college, work, whatever seems most interesting (and terrifying) at that particular moment. 

Yet, I hadn't realized I was missing it. God has really convicted me that I say I love Him when I'm praying but then when I say it on stage I don't mean it. I don't even think about what I'm saying. 

This isn't just an ordinary play. Yes, I'm acting, but these themes are things I should truly believe. Do I really think God is enough for me? Am I really committed to letting Him have all of me? 

I'm not in this position by accident. As a senior, this is my last chance to stand on this stage with these people and proclaim that there is Hope and His name is Jesus. 

I refuse to take that lightly anymore. 

God can and will use this musical. That's evident partly because there is so much opposition to it this year. Timing, personal stuff, technology. Getting the Gospel out almost always runs into problems because the devil is dedicated to fighting Christ. 

Thankfully, Christ is dedicated to the Gospel being heard, and we all know who wins. 

The Gospel wrapped in contemporary music and scripted jokes is still the Gospel. And I, for one, choose to let that Gospel change me. 

See, I'm one of the oldest people in the cast and I've been involved with this kind of thing for a while now, but I, without a doubt, need Him more today than I did last year, or in 6th grade. I need to hear this Gospel. 

I need to hear that no matter what we've done, no matter how I feel, His grace is enough for me. 

I need to hear that no matter how "good" the things I'm doing are, if my heart isn't right none of it matters. 

I need to hear that the King came down and gave everything for me to be made new. He is the Great I Am and the victory is His. 

And, between you and me, I feel like I'm not the only one. The musical is for the audience, and surely someone sitting in those pews is just waiting to be told that they are loved? Surely someone needs to be reminded that He has made us free? Surely someone needs Him just as much as I do? 

So tonight, tomorrow, and the rest of these precious days I've been given here, I'm taking a step back and listening to a message that I desperately need to hear . I'm stepping out and using this broken, human love to love broken, human people, and trusting that God can turn that into something more powerful than us. I'm stepping forward and telling them, telling myself, who this God is and how much He has paid to bring us close. 

I'm surrendering my worry, my irritability, all those little nagging thoughts that keep me from being present, and remembering that my God has been faithful. And this Sunday night? He will be again. 

"Are you surrendered?"