2023: A Year to Seek

Over the last 18 months, my relationship with God has felt rocky... unstable, full of more doubts and questions than answers. I found myself filling my mind with knowledge, reading His Word but missing relationship and connection with Him. 

At the beginning of 2023 I knew I needed something to change. That this stagnancy had been here for far too long, and I needed to get to the bottom of it. I was reminded of the countless scriptures that talk about seeking God and how He responds to the heart of the seeker.

"Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you." -James 4:8

"Ask and it shall be given to you, seek and you shall find, knock and the door will be opened to you." - Matthew 7:7

"Seek the Lord and live" -Amos 5:6

So I selected the word "SEEK" for my word of the year, and I implemented some changes to help me focus deeper on my relationship with the Lord... not just growing my head knowledge. I used nap times (short as they are) for intentional time with God... even if it's just reading scripture on my phone or clicking through a guided prayer time. I've tried to spend more intentional time journaling about what I read in His Word. I read books that helped deepen my understanding of what it looks like to pursue Him (and be pursued by Him) in the epic brokenness and pain of this world (highly recommend This Beautiful Truth by Sally Clarkson). With Chris's support, I've been able to go on a few all day retreats to seek the Lord and process life with Him.

A lot of my struggles with God have been rooted in pain and hardship. The same questions everyone asks, "How can a loving God allow ______?" "Does He not care?" "Does He not see?" "Could He not be more gentle?" "Is this really His best for me?"

A few weeks ago I read John's account of Lazarus's death and resurrection. (John 11:1-44). I thought I knew this story so well... and yet I had missed a little detail that reshaped this whole story for me. 

Jesus had heard that Lazarus was ill, but He intentionally waited before journeying to Bethany. He chose to wait and let Lazarus die. When he finally arrived, Lazarus had been dead and buried for four days. Martha, Lazarus's sister, came out to meet Jesus. She essentially asked for an explanation... but also communicated her trust in Jesus even though she didn't understand why He had waited. 

"But Mary remained seated in the house." (John 11:20)

Mary who had sat at Jesus's feet, who had paused her serving just to be with Him... Mary stayed behind bound up in grief, ignoring her Savior, nurturing her disappointment, confusion, and anger.

But in verse 28, after Martha finishes talking with Jesus, she calls her sister Mary and says in private, "the Teacher is here and is calling for you." 

Jesus went after her. He didn't allow her to stay alone in her grief. He sought her out and He wanted her to come talk to Him... to address her disappointments, to get clarity. 

And Mary goes. She needed to be called. But when she is called, she goes. 

She weeps as she echoes Martha's sentiment, "If you had been here my brother wouldn't have died." And Jesus is deeply moved and troubled in His spirit. And He weeps.

In this whole year of seeking, I put the impetus on myself to do the seeking. After all... "seek and you will find," "draw near to God and He will draw near to you." But just like every year when I choose a word of the year that I think should define my habits and actions, I am surprised to find that after 365 days, it is God who has been behind the scenes, doing it all along. 

This year I have been Mary, nurturing my grief, my questions, my doubts instead of pursuing my Savior. He is so near, and yet I'd rather put up barriers and boundaries to keep myself from getting hurt when I fail to understand His ways (that I wouldn't understand anyway.) I'd rather reach for the low-hanging fruits of comfort (which are actually not so comforting): endless scrolling, noise, fiction, shows-- than doing the hard work of seeking Him.

And yet, Jesus is the same as He's always been. He calls me, He seeks me out, just as He did for Mary. He summons me to Himself and as I meet His gaze through tear-filled eyes, I see His own eyes fill with tears at the brokenness, the pain, the death.

As Sally Clarkson so beautifully puts it in This Beautiful Truth, "We live in a fallen world still invaded, pervaded, and beloved by the Creator who comes to draw all things back to health by His own unbearable breaking."

So thankful that my Savior didn't just come to earth to sympathize with my pain, though of course He did that too. So thankful that He came to redeem it -- all of it -- through His own death and resurrection. 

So thankful that my Savior pursues me even when I'm locked behind doors of grief, anger, resentment, and doubt. 

So thankful that after a year of seeking, I realize He's found me.

Imago Dei

I'm standing in a corner of a large room near a large fake plant, holding my baby, and smiling quietly at the class of '22. I'm feeling shy, so I'm just here working up the courage to cross the room and talk to some of my old students. 

But there's no need. 

Because here they come. 

Students who now tower above me, parents who once authored some rather stressful emails, the 8th grade boy I have nothing in common with...

All coming to see me, talk, engage with my baby. 

Having Eliána has broken down so many barriers in ways I never would have imagined. 

But not just with people I once knew... everyone.

The girl with sunkissed hair, a flowery dress, licking a dripping ice cream cone: grinning from ear to ear at the sight of her.

The young, fit guys stopping for a coffee at the local bakery after a workout in the park, "Can we help you carry the stroller down the stairs?"

The couple on the park bench, melting into smiles at the sight of her. 

But also:

The withered old lady who takes five minutes of slow, methodical plodding in her squeaky sneakers to arrive at the parked stroller and beg for a peek.

The homeless man with skin leathery and crinkled from the sun, eyes scrunched as he smiles at her.

The shirtless drunk holding a sign, staggering after us in the park, slurring, "She's so cute!" 

And then:

The lady sweeping up last night's litter in the party district, bent over her broom, face filled with light as Eliána smiles at her. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit dirty, sweetie. I can't hold you." 

I turn, eyes big, as I see this lady...  only a few teeth, oozing eyes, smelling like the garbage she's sweeping. And Eli-girl looks her in the eyes, smiles, looks away, looks back and smiles even bigger, kicking her feet with delight. 

Because Eli recognizes something I am quick to forget. 

She recognizes the stamp, the imprint of the Creator on His creation. 

Imago Dei. 

God's image reflected in humanity. 

And when she smiles and engages with those who I would rather avoid, she's teaching me. 

Teaching me what it looks like to break down barriers. 

Teaching me what it looks like to love and extend the hospitality of a smile, of eye contact, and to acknowledge the humanity of each individual: the sweet little girl with the ice cream cone, and the disheveled lady sweeping the streets.

Teaching me the inherent worth of human life. 

Imago Dei in every human.

Out of the Boat

Trust is hard. And trusting Jesus in the midst of the uncertainties of new motherhood is extra hard. I keep finding myself returning to the story of Jesus walking on the water... and so here are my musings about trust, storms, and getting out of the boat:

After feeding the 5000, Jesus sent his disciples to row across the sea in the midst of a strong wind. He watched them struggle. He knew what was waiting for them, yet He sent them anyway.

He came to them walking on the water. It was almost like He was trying to scare them! He even "intended to pass them by" (Mark account). 

WHAT.

Yet He was waiting for them to call out to Him -- to acknowledge that they needed Him. 

And Peter did. 

But first He asked Jesus to prove His identity. How? 

"Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you on the water."

Peter knew the Lord. He knew that invitation and challenge are quintessential to who Jesus is. 

He invites.

He challenges.

He calls out. 

"Follow me."

"You give them something to eat."

"Come."

He challenges so that we may step out of that boat. To experience the waves tickling our bare feet as we glide across them. To feel the defying of the natural, the embracing of the supernatural.

A moment Peter would never forget. 

And though his faith was "little," he still got out of the boat.

He experienced the supernatural. And he also experienced the closeness and presence of Christ when he faltered.

He knew Jesus deeper and more intimately because of that test.

He felt Jesus' arms around him, catching him, buoying him up even as the waves crashed around him.

He knew intimacy with Christ in a way that none of the other disciples would.

He recognized Jesus as Lord, and as the One with authority to save: 

"Lord save me!" 

This cry honors Jesus, even when said by lips of the doubter. 

"Help my unbelief!"

And so in the midst of the anxieties of new motherhood... the crests and troughs of the white-capped waves, I will cry out to Jesus, my Lord who saves.

I will cry out to the One who has already "slept in the boat" with us in the midst of the previous tempests of life. Who calmed the wind and the waves of each storm, but sent us knowingly into the next one... so that we could experience His presence, His peace, His challenge to walk with Him on the waves, and to cry out "Lord save me!" when we falter.

To trust Him deeper. 

He loves our daughter more than we could ever. 

He loves me more than I can imagine. 

He is a good Father.

He gives good gifts to His children. 

And through it all, He invites us to trust Him. 

Rhythm Writing: Dreams Unrealized

Living in Europe. 

Walking past hundred-year old buildings, Parliament a regular sight as I run my errands. The sparkling Danube hurrying under my feet as I pause to admire the view from my favorite tram stop on my favorite bridge. 

But not as a missionary. Not with a daily "higher call." Newsletters. The constant uncertainty and reliance on the Lord to meet all of my needs.

Teaching. 

Daily interactions with hilarious, wise, growing students. The opportunity to inspire them to think deeply with their hearts and their minds as they learn to love learning, and steward their knowledge in God-honoring ways.

But not middle school -- that awkward age of voice cracks, greasy hair, body odor, and emotional drama! 

Not science -- my least favorite subject in school. 

Not at a Christian school -- where kids "already know the Truth"... where "I can't make a real difference."

Languages, worship, cultures, growth, and community. 

But not in Hungarian, not from the front of a bilingual church. Not in my marriage... "What did you say? Torque? Talk? Chips? Fries?" And certainly not an ocean away from "home."  

I've had these seeds of dreams sown in my heart from childhood. But unrealized -- unknown to me. 

Waiting for just the right environment for them to germinate, unfolding and unfurling. A breakthrough. 

And here I am, living the dreams I never knew I had in ways I never expected. 

Unrealized dreams reaching, bending, stretching toward the light, into unexpected joy. 

I'm trying to do a bit more writing this year... and I'm participating in Rhythm Writing: a year of listening, praying, and writing. This prompt required to tell about one unrealized dream... I decided to interpret it a bit differently ;) 

A Resurrection Sunrise

Hope dawns on a dark and broken world.

The world has been shaken.

Now only the unshakeable remains.

We scrambled up the hill as the horizon lightened, pinkened behind us.

The world was still, but the birds were already lifting their voices to greet the dawn, singing in expectation. And we joined the birds, welcoming the dawn with song.

The lights of the city switched off. The city was dark, like a stage set just before the opening act.

At the edge of the horizon, at the darkest moment there was a speck of hope, 

Like the rumble of a stone being rolled away.

Before our eyes, hope grew, the red, glowing orb greeted the day, waking from its slumber.

Hope grew, a black, empty tomb greeting the morning.

The hill lightened and the shadows fell away.

The resurrection is as sure as the sunrise. 

The sunrise is not canceled.

Easter is not canceled.

Jesus is alive. 

Uncertainty and Futility

Yesterday I swept the sidewalk around our porch. It felt good to do something physical after weeks of screen time... Zoom meetings, online teaching, online grading. It felt invigorating to channel frustration and anger into the satisfying swish of the broom on the cracked sidewalk. It felt good to exact control over tiny pine needles, shoving them back into the thick, prickly carpet surrounding the pine tree.

But then a light breeze... and the rebellious pine needles came blowing back to the clean sidewalk. I sighed and swept them away yet again. This pattern continued until I reached the end of the sidewalk and decided it was time to go back inside to continue other futile tasks, tasks done well now, but needing to be done again in just a few days' time.

Uncertainty and futility.

Two of the most frustrating feelings. Things I never embrace.

Yet here I am. In months of uncertainty. The futility of making plans. I cannot avoid these feelings. I might as well befriend them. We'll be here awhile.

I like to plan out my week, to know what is to come. To plan the future. But I've always known that plans can change. In fact, I've (usually) held my plans with an open hand. At least I always thought I did.

When the world. The whole world. The whole world pauses its planning, its rushing, its self-importance. When the whole world confesses that it doesn't quite know. That is a strange feeling.

I don't know what God is thinking, why this whole thing exists. I don't know what His plans are. And it can make me angry. It can make me feel like I need to demand an explanation of God... as if I just happened upon an unattended toddler and a big mess, "Explain yourself! What were you thinking?"

But maybe that's the whole point.

God is God. I am not. He owes me no explanation. He doesn't owe anyone an explanation.

And in this quiet, in this confusion, I examine what I do know of Him. And I study His Word to know Him better. And though I may not understand the why, I can at least grow in my trust of the One who continues to remain on His throne.

I see He is the God of the universe. The Creator of all things. He is all powerful (Job 38-42). And just as he didn't owe Job an explanation, He doesn't owe me one either.

I read Psalm 9 a few days ago as I was studying the character of God. The last verse spoke powerfully to me.

"Let the nations know they are but men." -Psalm 9:20

If we are but men, then may we recognize and exalt Him as God. May we recognize when we have come to the end of ourselves. May we stop pretending to be in control. May we recognize the futility of our efforts and cry out to Him in humility.

May we think rightly about who we are. May we bow to His lordship. May we wake up to His sovereignty and stop playing at being God.

Maybe this is a Tower of Babel time. A time of disrupting the order we've made for ourselves. A time of disrupting order so we may realize that we are not God. That we would stop scrambling, hustling, and striving for control. To stop making a name for ourselves, but instead make a name for God.

And just like it does today, it seemed like a senseless tragedy of confusion, postponed plans (a tower half-built), futility in communication, a loss of control. But the door flew open to the beauty of languages, cultures, and people groups in which we can see His glory.

I don't know the silver lining yet. I don't know if there is one here on this Earth. I don't know anything. But maybe this is about His glory. To seek His light, to seek His whispers, His presence, and His fingerprints even in this situation.

Maybe our response should be as Job's, upon realizing his audacity to speak into things he did not know, and could not understand: "I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes." Job 42:6

Maybe the only thing we can do is lean in to better understand who this God is... rather than running from Him and rejecting Him. And that requires me to lay aside my pride that says "I know better." It requires me to remember that His ways are higher than mine, that His thoughts are not like my thoughts. To remember that He is God, and I am not.

"Let the nations know they are but men."

It is futile to try to understand the ways of God. And since I hate futility so much, I've decided to give up. To embrace the fact that He is God, and I am not.

Thankfulness is a Weapon

Thankfulness is a weapon --
a weapon against forgetting
the steadfast love of the Lord
and all His wondrous deeds.

Thankfulness is a chain --
a chain that imprisons;
making every discontent thought
obedient to Christ.

Thankfulness is a yoke --
a yoke of humility:
a reminder that I'm not the one
responsible for my successes.

Thankfulness is a burden --
a burden easy to bear.
It lightens even
the heaviest load.

Thankfulness is the narrow gate --
the gate that leads to contentment:
joy in His presence
and awe at His work.