A Dryer of Regrets

From our balcony seats, the orchestra members were just black dots on a glowing stage. They hauled their large instruments around as they found their places. The conductor raised his baton, and the music began.

The moment the music began, so did my thoughts. I rarely get time to just sit and think. I am so used to thinking in the moment and making split-second decisions that having an hour and a half to just listen to music and think without doing anything else feels unnatural. Perhaps it's good, though.

My thoughts are like damp clothes in a dryer. They tumble over each other, over and over, for what seems like eternity. I process around and around in a circle, reflecting, regretting, accepting, and continuing the cycle all over again. My friend often calls me out on this... playfully teasing me about the dryer of my brain... "Are they ready yet? Nope. Still damp. Still tossing." she smirks as she "closes" the dryer and my thoughts continue to toss and turn over each other... my thinking rehashed, once again trying to come to terms with where I am and how I've gotten here.

As we drove through quiet streets, we talked about regrets.

"I just don't want you to have regrets."

How many times have I heard that, or perhaps said it to others? Regrets are something to be avoided at all costs.

But yet, I have regrets. I have regrets about teaching, friendships, where I am in life. It seems there is always a part of me that is discontent with where I am and the path my life has taken.


As far back as I can remember, I was always hard on myself. I laughed at my "past self" for not knowing the things I knew in the present. My "past self"s art was hysterically ridiculous, my "past self"s approaches to life were immature. Even old facebook posts... who was that silly girl?

But I learned something the night of the orchestra concert as we processed our regrets and disappointments.

Regrets are a sign of growth.

If I lived life without regrets, it would mean that I had never learned anything. I was perfect the way I entered the world... with the knowledge, skills, and understandings I started with. It is through my deepest regrets that I have grown the most as a person... deepening my understanding about my Lord and who He created me to be.

The regrets that hurt the most are not the ones that end with someone wagging their finger saying, "I told you so." Rather, they're the ones that blindsided me. The ones that nobody saw coming: the friendship that fell apart, the student I lost before I had a chance to truly connect with... because the regrets I see coming are ones I should have avoided. I should have planned against. I already had a hunch things wouldn't go well... and I could have found another way.

These are the regrets I choose to live without. The avoidable ones... that often require counsel from those older and wiser than me in order to circumvent.

The growth-regrets? Regrets because I have grown and changed and learned and have seen things differently? Though disappointing, I must learn to accept them, to celebrate them. Because I now know things I didn't know then. And as much as they hurt, it's time to accept them as part of who I am. The journey that has brought me here, and the journey that will lead me Home.

Guarding my heart

Day 1: He came to me, draped in a dark sweatshirt, hoodie up. His eyes wouldn't meet mine. He slunk past me to his desk, and immediately pulled out the enormous Harry Potter book he had brought with him. Without looking up, he buried himself in it. He drew on himself the entire day, put his feet up on his desk, and scowled at me. If I gave directions to the whole class, he defied me in front of them. When it came time for gym, he sat on his desk to put his shoes on. He couldn't tie them. He awkwardly made loops, the strings slipping out of his grip. He argued and glared, loudly asking when it was time to go home.

Day 2: He showed me his spiked hair. His hood was off, and he flashed a broken smile when I told him I liked his spiked hair. He raised his hand once. His 800 page book sat on his desk. Any spare moment, he snatched it up, set it on his lap, and put his head on his desk. From where I stood, it appeared like he had his head down on his desk, rebellious. But I smirked when I saw that he was reading under there... "rebellious"

When they hear his story, they tell me,
"Guard your heart. He could be gone any day."
"Be careful, don't get too attached."

But it's getting to be too late.

Day 3: Our eyes meet across the room. I smile at him and wish him good morning. He lowers his gaze and mumbles a good morning. Throughout the day, I glance over to where he sits. He is watching me. He cracks a few smiles as I tell my infamous preying mantis story. He raises his hand a few more times. He tells me the seventh continent is Antarctica. He tells me that we need to capitalize the beginning of the sentence. Before lunch, he lets me put my arm around him as I direct him out the door, since he's hanging back, wanting to read more at his desk. Before recess he calls my name. I turn, and he is holding his hand up. "High five." He says it quietly, but expectantly. Our hands meet, and the corner of his mouth turns upward into a smile.

I know they told me to guard my heart. I know they told me to watch myself from giving so much to this child, so I won't be broken when he leaves. But I won't. Because if I guard my heart, if I hold back from loving this child for fear that he will walk out of my life as suddenly as he walked into it, I will not give him what he needs. He needs affirmation. He needs to know that he is valuable, and that others see him, recognize him, and care about him. He needs to know love. 

Day 4: I wrote him a note, telling him about the things he is doing well. He found it in math. For the rest of the lesson he clutched the note. One hand holding the note, the other holding the pencil as he works on the place value assignment. He gave me a few more high fives. After the bell rang, we were heading in the same direction. I asked how he liked it here. He smiled shyly and told me it was "alright here." 

I know he has a long way to go. I expect he will have good days and bad days. I know it's only the first week of school. I know that it's a long road to fifth grade. I know. I know I won't reverse ten years of damage in a week. But I know I can start. I can do my part. 

C.S. Lewis said it best when he said, 

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

I have a choice. To guard my heart, or to love freely. I'm choosing to love, even in the face of the risk of being broken. 

Setbacks through a different lens

It was my last Sunday before moving back to Indiana. I was heading back right after lunch. Despite being overwhelmed at all that I had to do, my family was seated in our usual row at church. I smiled contentedly as I reflected on all the people I know and love in Michigan, and winced at the thought of leaving after having just arrived. I was distracted. But not distracted enough to tune out the sermon about suffering... that either I'm going through it right now, or it's coming my way.

I remember thinking that life has been pretty good. Things have been going my way. In fact, things have felt easy. The summer after my first year of teaching was definitely a huge stress reliever, with lots of time to take a break and rest with family. Other people around me were going through tough times, but me? I was good.

And then I realized that's a little bit of a risky place to be... because it's true. The hard times are coming, then. The fear of the unknown gripped me a bit, and I became a little nervous.

But I had to pack, so I brushed the thought of suffering away, packed up my car, and drove to Indiana with my family.

On our way, we drove through a storm. Not just a distant-lightning-quiet-thunder kind of storm. But a can't-see-where-I'm-going, have-to-pull-over, pelted-with-hail kind of storm. Young trees uprooted, some roads closed as old oaks cracked in half. I was petrified.

But I made it.

My family helped me unpack, and then the significantly lighter, blue minivan pulled out of my driveway and disappeared down the road. I watched them.... then quietly closed the door and felt the hollow pit in my stomach. The feeling of loneliness.

I swallowed my loneliness as I celebrated my reunion with friends. Life felt good. My friend challenged me to start memorizing scripture again. She recommended Psalm 27, the one she was working on. I read through it. It didn't really grab me. Because life was good. But I began to memorize...

"The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear..."

Then things started happening. Not devastating life-changing things. But setbacks, frustrations, and exhaustion.

"The Lord is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?"

I sprained my knee while jogging. (Or maybe it was when I stepped off my porch...) I am embarrassed. Embarrassed for the way I sprained it. Embarrassed to be limping about. Embarrassed to need people to do things for me. The doctor told me to rest it for a week and a half. The week and a half before school starts.

"When evildoers assail me, to eat up my flesh, my adversaries and foes, it is they who will stumble and fall."

I started feeling very anxious about this next year of teaching, perhaps because of my knee and feeling like I have to go slow or hurt it more. Perhaps because I have seven more kids than last year. Suddenly, filled with doubt if I can do it. If I'm cut out for this.

"Though an army (of students!) encamp against me, my heart shall not fear;"

And then yesterday, pulling out of the parking lot, a lady backed into my car. My car isn't totaled. We were going 3 mph. But it does need to be fixed... repairs and the insurance and all the things I'm scared of are wrapped into one big bundle of stress, simply a few days before school starts.

"though war arise against me, yet I will be confident"

Right after the accident, as I was flaring up in rage, I felt the Lord speak to me, "May she know Me better because she interacted with you today," and as I slowly calmed down, "when evildoers assail me, to eat up my flesh (or my money)... my heart shall not fear." Scripture was the first thing in my heart, on my mind, whispered in the stifling heat of my car as I waited for the police to file the report.

My life through the lens of Psalm 27 is suddenly manageable. It's not fun. But I know where my strength comes from.

And I find my heart yearning more and more for the comfort and protection of my Lord:
"One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple."  

In His presence, there is JOY, despite what life brings:

"He will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; He will conceal me under the cover of His tent; He will lift me high upon a rock. And now my head shall be lifted up above my enemies all around me, and I will offer in His tent sacrifices with shouts of joy. I will sing and make melody to the Lord."

That's as far as I've gotten in my memorizing, but here's to verse 7 and beyond!

Delight

The shade concealed me from the glaring sunlight as I peeled off my sandals and dipped my striped, tan-lined feet in the cool water. I flinched from the cold, but immersed them once again as I watched the fountain splash happily, sunlight glinting off the water droplets.

We had just found an ideal spot around the rim of the large fountain on Margit Sziget. Every hour the fountain would be synced to different music, and put on quite the show of dancing water droplets. It was five minutes to the top of the hour, and I had plenty of room on both sides of me... 

And then they came. 

They talked loudly in another language. Shrieking children. Four of them. Two frazzled parents. Bicycle, tricycle, stroller, diaper bag, helmets, water bottle, camera. Bright, freckled faces, strawberry blond hair. They lined the rim right next to me. And just when I thought they were situated, the last two managed to squeeze in the little gap to my left, nearly sitting on my lap. I must admit, I was rather annoyed, especially when their little feet kicked excitedly in the water, splashing water on me. Yes, I know, didn't have the best attitude. 

The music started, and the fountain began splashing in time to the music. Large geysers of water shot up through the air, swirled, tumbled, and chased each other through the air. Spectators hummed along to some of the familiar tunes, like Hungarian Rhapsody and Radetzky March. But to my left, eight little hands clapped after every spray of water, pointing to their favorite spurts of water shrieks of genuine thrill and excitement were released in complete unison. Four little mouths gaped with every new splash, squealing and ooing as the jets of water sprayed in a circle. Eight bruised shins and scraped knees trembled with excitement as they saw each new blast of water. 

Delight. 

Their eyes shone with it under their caps, beneath tucked hair and rosy cheeks. 

Their delight was contagious. I threw my head back, laughing as the spray from the fountain pelted me, leaving darkened little spots on my blue tank top. I couldn't stop grinning, filled with the same childlike delight with the simplicity of a fountain, familiar tunes, a beautiful day, and people I love. 

Suddenly I was overcome in the midst of the roar of the fountain and crackle of the speakers, the giggles to my left, and the chatter all around me. 

This is delight. Delight yourself in Me and I will give you the desires of your heart. 

With a resounding crash, the water splashed down into the pool and finally lay still. The kids clapped, but that feeling of delight remained. 

How I desire to live in pure delight... Delight in my Lord and the beautiful works of His hands. That with every evidence of His presence, I would applaud Him, give Him glory, and celebrate Him. 

Thankful for simple lessons, simple truths, and changed attitudes... And little strawberry-blond, freckled children teaching me Delight. 

Life in a Box

An era comes to an end. We have spent several days helping my grandma move out of her little summer cottage outside of the city. 

Solymar is a place dear to all of us. It was a place of rest away from the chaos of the city. Every summer my brother and I would look forward to spending the night at Solymar with Nagyi. We had badminton tournaments and climbed the cherry tree, spending hours eating dusty cherries and spewing seeds at each other. In the evenings we would start a "twilight bark" and wake up all the dogs in the village below. We would pull out the blankets and have long talks under the stars, an occasional bat blocking out the Little Dipper. Nagyi would tell us bedtime stories, "Operenci"s, and tell us to go straight to sleep, which of course never happened. We would awake to the chickens' clucks next door, and the sunshine seeping through the windows, Nagyi making coffee in the kitchen downstairs. Chilly morning breakfasts with the distant hilly mountains illumined by the morning sun. Barefoot in the grass, the daisies would get stuck between our toes as we raced to pick berries and watch the enormous ant nest quiver with excitement at the occasional dropped raspberry. Before leaving, we would always end up soaking each other with the hose, and inciting the anger of Nagyi... Quickly calming into a wet embrace. 

Solymar was the subject of countless "favorite place" essays from fourth grade on. It was the place where my brother and I grew so much closer, and began to understand each other. Where we went from being just siblings to best friends. 

And this week the ownership will change. The house will be demolished, and the places where we once padded around barefoot, laughing, teasing, and growing will be no more. 

As we cleaned out shelves and closets full of memories, we also pulled out an enormous amount of things that no longer seem to matter. My grandma's scrawled college notes from engineering school, or early projects from her days as an engineer. Little notebooks of English lessons written so formally, that most English speakers would only laugh. Old clothes from ages gone by... Too small, too "out of style," with 80s shoulder pads and loud patterns. There were also several rusty irons, old blenders, broken scissors, and things tucked away "just in case" that have long since been forgotten. It was sobering as we started a fire and burned "important documents" from fifty years ago. Once they were to be guarded with all vigilance, but now they were ashes, smoke rising into the withering trees. 

I remember several years ago standing in the entry way to Nagyi's house. Outside the door was a big box of papers. I asked my mom what was in it. Her response was "a life in a box." Papers, blueprints, notes, and receipts. All of life's accomplishments in a box. 

This felt similar. And I didn't like it. Carrying boxes of things to the dump reminded me of how fleeting life is. That perhaps all of my life's accomplishments really could just fit in a box. And perhaps fifty years down the road, it will only be ash and dust, unnecessary and useless. 

Squinting through the smoke toward the soon-to-be demolished house, I once again pondered eternity versus the temporary. So often I allow the temporary things to rule my life, and I allow the stress of the moment to cloud my view of eternity. 

But if I invest in people, I invest in the eternal. If I allow the temporary things to get in the way of investing in people, I am creating nothing more than piles of ash and garbage. I keep pondering the idea of storing up treasures in heaven. So often I feel pressured to have nice stuff here. To impress people with the way I look, the things I can show off, or even the experiences I have had. But ultimately these things fade. Wealth fades. Riches fade. 

But where your treasure is, there your heart will also be. 

Undressed and Off-Duty

Each day of this school year I have recognized it for what it is: a battle. 

So each day as I drove to school, I committed the day to the Lord, praying over my precious class, the teachable moments, the ability to speak truth and love into some lives completely devoid of such things. 

I rehearsed and rehashed scripture, prayed through gorgeous sunrises and praised through the winding roads of cornfields, cow pastures, and strong smell-blasts of manure. 

Armed with the belt of Truth, debunking lies became easier. Not easy, but lies stuck in my head a little less, and Truth seemed more at the tip of my tongue... More at the front of my mind, to slide into a moment of panic and bring peace. 

With truth fastened around me, the breastplate of righteousness was strengthened. It was easier to tell right from wrong; guarding against compromising situations before they happened. 

My feet ready with the gospel of peace... To share the gospel, to bring peace to those who struggle. I have never lived a year more on mission, more centered, or more focused. 

The shield of faith, reminding me consistently of who I am and Whose I am, putting out the flaming arrows of doubt the enemy would send against me. 

The helmet of salvation, protecting me and my thoughts, the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, always at my side, ready to fill my mind with Truth, reminding me of the things that I need to know as I head into the battle of every day. 

School has been out for less than a week. Yet it feels like it's been months. 

The battle is over, and I undress, stepping out of my uniform. After all, it's summer and I'm off-duty. I'm with family, not with needy children, their parents, or the daily dose of negativity that comes with the teaching profession. 

And as I believe this lie, I have already unbuckled the belt of Truth. I am slipping it off with this very thought. Because it doesn't matter where I am in the world, who I am with, or what I am doing. As long as I am a follower of Christ, I am in a battle. 

When the belt of Truth is unbuckled and falls at my ankles, I feel relieved. Sometimes Truth feels so constricting. But. The lies that never even phased me before, suddenly slow me down and cause my mind to race. They derail me. They make me feel useless and incompetent. 

Once the belt of Truth comes off, the breastplate of righteousness peels away pretty easily, too. It's heavy and uncomfortable, limiting, really. If truth is removed, then so are the standards of righteousness. I can give a little, let a little attitude out without having anything to set me back on course and show me where I am wrong. 

I kick off my shoes too... After all, I'm coming back inside after being out and about for so long. I close my checkbook, close my heart, and forget that every moment could be an opportunity to share the gospel of peace. I am unprepared. After spending a year searching for opportunities and living on mission, I'm tired, and just want to get comfy. 

I've laid down my shield of faith, doubting who I am in Christ, taking the enemey's arrows left and right. I don't even realize I'm burning with doubt, discontentment, and perhaps even jealousy... Of people who have things I wish I had, and wishing I was elsewhere in the walk of life. 

My helmet of salvation... Well I guess I'll keep that on, but I haven't been protecting -- guarding -- my thoughts. I let them race, rehash the past, and devour me even when I close my eyes to catch some rest. 

Oh. And the sword of the Spirit? The Word of God? I'm too busy, too tired, too drained for that now. Don't feel like picking it up and finding out all that is not up to par. I'll snooze through a quick chapter of Genesis, so I learn next to nothing and don't even care to go back. 

And then somehow I'm surprised when, as an off-duty soldier, I'm caught off guard, attacked, and wounded. I call foul and "unfair," but it's not. Because in all reality, the war is still raging, I just decided to take my vacation in the middle of the battlefield... I've spread a blanket, and decided to catch some zzzs, hoping that maybe the battle won't reach me.... That as long as I'm out, no one will hit me. 

But anyone in a summer water fight, or winter snowball fight, or even a real war may know... It doesn't matter what you're doing when the war is raging around you. If you're on the battlefield, you're fair game. It doesn't matter that the blast of ice cold water reached you as you were sunbathing and reading a delicious book. You're wet. You're down. You might as well join the fight. 

So I'd rather be prepared than be caught off guard again. It may be summer, I may not be at school all day, and I may not be pouring into twenty-some little needy lives right now. But that just means the battle looks different. It's still going on. 

Time to get dressed and get back in the fight!

Obsessing over Reputation

I am guilty.

Guilty of obsessing over my reputation.

In school, my friends used the term "Zoe" to refer to anything goody-two-shoes, cautious, or naive. It was also used interchangeably with getting good grades, or being responsible. Despite it being a "boring" reputation, I wanted to make sure that's how people saw me. Solid. Reliable. Dependable. Responsible.

In college, my 13-year reputation was back to year 1. Fresh starts, clean slates. Most people rejoice at the idea of creating a new name for themselves. But me? I was terrified. What if I became a "different person" from the one I had always been? What if someone discovered the true me... hiding under layers of perfectionism and people-pleasing? What if my reputation at Grace ended up being totally different from the one in high school. Going to a Christian school, what if I was no longer seen as "good enough," "insightful," or "above average?"

I didn't truly realize these deep-seated fears until ironically, my senior year of college. Suddenly everything I believed myself to be and the reputation that was four years in the making (with some tweaks from my old high school self) was questioned.

I thought it was questioned by everyone. I thought I was the campus gossip. And I began to shut down. I avoided people, thinking to protect myself from their judgment. I began to judge them for the assumption they were judging me. I was tangled in a mass of obsession. Obsession over myself and how others saw me.

Any time I return to Grace College campus, this obsession returns. It jumps in my throat. I worry and obsess. Whenever I am out and about and run into someone I think might have judged me, that same defensiveness leaps back into me, viciously protecting in case I leave myself open to judgment.

Ironic.

I even avoid certain places because I am afraid of what people might think of me. Snickers behind my back are my worst fear... 

But ultimately, this shows a lack of trust. A lack of trust in God to protect my reputation, and to allow it to be what it will. Of course I am to be "above reproach" as the scriptures say, but I also need to let go. In some ways, this obsession over my reputation is an epic form of pride. Really? Everyone has nothing better to do with their time than sit around judging me and my every move? I am not in the center of the world, and most people give little thought to my actions.

This week I was reading through Mark 15, Jesus' crucifixion. I had been pondering this whole reputation obsession as I came to the passage.

Never before have I read Jesus' death through the lens of his reputation. At every moment in the process of his torture and death, his reputation was put to the test. Pilate questioned him about who he was. Jesus remained silent. They mocked him. Yet he remained silent. He hung on the cross, criminals on either side, hurling insults upon him. At any moment he could have silenced them with the truth about who he was. But he chose not to.

His reputation was at stake. Or so it seemed. He had spent three years establishing his public image. And in one day, the Son of God, King of the Jews, I Am, Messiah, Christ, the Resurrection and the Life was put to death. Hanging on the cross, the insults came,

"He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down now from the cross that we may see and believe."

I'm sure Jesus felt the pull to defend himself. At any moment he could have come down from that bloody tree, smiting all who had taunted. Yet he didn't. He trusted the Father with his reputation.

He trusted that in three days when he emerged from the grave victoriously, the Father would set all things right. His reputation would be upheld, and he and the Father would receive glory. 

Ultimately, Jesus traded in his perfect reputation for mine: a sinner. Perfect Jesus, Lamb of God, Holy Son, hanging filthy, bloody, naked, exposed. He hung as the worst criminal. He hung for me.

And in this crazy exchange, I have somehow become holy. Pure. Blameless. Righteous.

How can I possibly obsess over the way people see me when He has called me Righteous? Why should it matter how other creatures see me when the Creator has called me good?

Jesus' reputation was questioned by criminals, yet he did nothing to correct it. He simply loved them enough to stay on the tree, trusting the Father with his reputation.

I serve a God who preserves reputations, even if it means raising the dead, defeating the grave, and exalting the Son! Can't I leave my reputation in His hands?

Does God Change?

When I was nine I learned the word "immutable." It was added to my list of attributes of God: qualities that describe Him (and pretty much only Him). Immutable meant that he never changed. He stayed the same through the ages, just like the worship songs say...

But my life changed, of course. High school, college, teaching. Moving from childhood to adulthood, learning, growing, and always changing perspectives.

My relationship with Him ebbed and flowed. Reading and studying His words went from being my morning routine, to my longing and obsession, then back once more to routine, until it fell out of routine almost completely. As life has gotten busier, snippets of His Word last me until the next crazy moment. My time with Him now is completely hit or miss. An hour and a half here, five minutes there, a Psalm snack, or a Bible expedition.

And just like my relationships with people change, my relationship with God changes too. We're always either growing closer or moving farther apart. And even stagnancy is never truly staying the same...

But in understanding my relationship with Him to change, I began to assume He also changes. And I throw it back in His face: "You said you'd never change! You said you'd always stay the same!" My frustration at my changing situation is always thrown back on Him. Because in human relationships, it's always a two-way street. It's never just one person's fault. Both have a part to play in the growth or demise of a relationship. So I assume it's the same with God. And I get frustrated when I feel He isn't holding up His side of the bargain.

I hate the idea of changing truth. In fact, the seeming definition of truth would be that it doesn't or shouldn't change. Truth is truth; it's absolute, and it can't be adjusted or shifted.

Why, then, do I find that throughout different seasons of my life, God has "changed his expectations" for me? Growing up, He seemed to emphasize moderation, caution, sin, legalism, and holiness in the people He placed around me. In college it seemed like He had changed His expectations for me completely. More often than not, He seemed to emphasize FREEDOM and celebrating all the things I can do in Him. I embraced choice, free will, and grace. Endless grace. Neither of these were sinful. Or faulty perspectives. Yet they are complete opposites. It seems impossible, then, that both are valid and true.

Other times, He emphasized speaking truth. Telling people straight up what they needed to hear, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it was for me. Confrontation. Yet on the other hand, He beat me over the head with grace. He challenged me to show grace to others. When I was so ready to judge someone with Truth, He turned the tables and filled my heart with grace.

He has taught my introverted self to love people, to surround myself with them, to pour into others, yet other times He emphasizes rest and pulling away, putting up barricades, and being willing to step away from others' struggles, pain, and hurt... which would make me feel cruel and unfeeling. He taught me that it isn't my job to transform hearts. He taught me to love deeply, yet be willing to release the ones I love at the foot of the cross.

He grew my heart for missions, for cultures, for getting out and "changing the world," prepared me, sent me, and brought me back to Warsaw, Indiana, and taught me to love the people here. Serve them here. Be present. here.

He has taught me about worship. About worship being so much more than a song sung to His name. Worship is a way of life, of service, of the heart. He taught me the importance of worshiping Him in private, then challenged me to love His Church... the people who also love Him. He taught me to worship with them.

He has led me into relationships, and led me out of them. He has broken me, and mended me. He continues to be full of paradoxes. The things He values seem opposites to me, and I don't understand how He could emphasize one thing for a time in my life, then completely turn the tables, and emphasize the other.

His pendulum keeps swinging between the tensions of two opposites, and I find myself jumping from one side to the other, never maintaining the balance. Either it's all grace and lenience with sin, or all law and no grace. It's all loving people, or selfish solitude. It's all a heart for overseas, or all a singular contentment with where I am for as long as I live. I am flawed, and I always favor one side over another, rather than maintaining the tensions He continually seems to ask of me.

But it makes sense. These paradoxes aren't truly paradoxes. They are, perhaps, for the human mind. But God is enormous. He encompasses so much more than I could ever fathom.

I think of myself as a tiny planet orbiting an enormous star. At any given moment, I see only a certain amount of who He is. I see only a little of what He expects. As I continue my orbit, I begin to discover new sides to Him... sides that I have never had the opportunity to know because I have never been in that exact place of my "orbit." They've always been there... just waiting for discovery. And as I continue my orbit, places I knew well are now in shadow; new places are illumined. God does not change. He is constant. Immutable. It's me and my inconstancy, my ever-orbiting that is doing all the changing. I'm just seeing new sides to this enormous God.

 

To the Victor Goes History

I sat slumped over my desk at school. It was five thirty... maybe six, and I still wasn't finished with wrapping up my day. The piles of papers to grade always linger, the frustration grows as the time ticks away, and still I seem no closer to my goal of leaving than I did at four o'clock.

Finally I managed to gather my thoughts and I was frantically working, trying to beat the clock, beat my goal, and GO HOME. And then he walked in.

My custodian who LOVES to chat. He likes to have deep philosophical conversations about pretty much anything. Normally I'm up for this, but by the end of the day, the LAST thing I want to do is have these kinds of conversations. I'm exhausted and drained, and I know my thoughts aren't even logical... so why bother.

We said our hellos, and then we got to work... he was cleaning the board, I was typing my lesson plans. I looked up to see him considering the anchor chart I had on my wall about facts vs. opinions. Written below each definition, I included some examples. Under facts I had listed numbers, dates, history, science (can be proven). I remember writing it and disagreeing a little about history being a fact. The event is a fact, but the perspective the story is told from can change... but I decided these were fourth graders, and I could put it on there without running into too much trouble.

Suddenly, he turned around, rag in hand and announced that he disagreed. I was confused, until I saw that he was pointing back at the poster. I tried to hold back the philosophical discussion, but finally I caved.

And so it began. "You do realize that history is told from different perspectives?" Well of course. So we chatted for a while about the different spins on history: i.e. Japanese perspective of the dropping of the atomic bombs, Polish perspective of WWII, British perspective of the Revolutionary War...

Then. "History is written from the perspective of the victor, you do realize that?."

Long after our conversation ended and he pushed his vacuum cleaner out of my room, the words lingered in the back of my mind.

Once I finally made it home, cleared the kitchen, and tuned back in... it was still there.  

History is written from the perspective of the victor.

It came in the middle of pondering how people view me... of the constant pressure to compromise what I know to be true and right in order for people to like me better. To fit in better.

After reading the beginning verse of Psalm 37 about continuing to do good, dwell in faithfulness, and trust the Lord, despite what others are doing around me, I did some backwards thinking.

History is written from the perspective of the victor.
 
If I know the victor, then I know the perspective history will be written from. His. Ultimately, I know who wins: The Lord will triumph. Jesus says, "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart; I have overcome the world."- John 16:33

So if history will be written from His perspective, then why would I NOT live in such a way as to please Him now? When history is written from His perspective, I want to be on His side, living every day clearly on His side, not straddling the fence, waiting to see who wins. There is no question. So why am I questioning whose side I want to be on now?

Perhaps I've chosen my side. But there is always the constant temptation to deny my side. To pretend for a moment I'm in no-man's-land. Or even cross over to mock others, gossip, and complain with the other side. Just so they'll like me better.

When history is written, and the Lord looks back triumphantly... I don't want Him to see me cowering in a corner, afraid to stick out, denying him and blending in simply to be liked. I want to be seen as His faithful servant, sticking to His side regardless of how tough it gets, working for His approval, and not for man's.




 

A People Problem

I am an introvert with a people problem.

I love people. I love being around them, and I'd rather spend time with people than by myself. This is most certainly a recent issue, since in college I couldn't seem to get away from people. But now that I live mostly on my own, twenty minutes from my friends instead of in the same room, I have a people problem.

That twenty minute drive seems impossibly long. I grew up in a small town where it was a two minute drive to anywhere I wanted to be. And usually I walked. But now, I often get done with school and decide to just hang out in town before making the "impossibly long drive" back home. I realize if I had grown up farther from town, this drive would be worth making multiple times a day. That's not the case.

But lately I've been asking myself a question: Is it really that I love people so much, or is it perhaps that I fear loneliness more?

I certainly do love people, but I have been noticing a frightening tendency: my inability to say no. If someone invites me over, I immediately accept. I get home at ten or ten-thirty, just in time for bed. Then the next morning, I get up and do it all over again.

I have a few close friends in the area, and lately we've been talking about what we run to instead of God. For some of them it's books or movies (entertainment in general). For other people it might be "more destructive" addictions. But me? It's people. The obsession of having someone always there, and if they're not there, then texting, skyping, or calling. And if that fails, music. Always music playing in the background.

What's the big deal? Why am I so unwilling to be alone?

Part of it is my fear of learning to be content in loneliness... that if I ever truly learn to be content in a place of loneliness, God will leave me there. Forever.

Part of it is my raging thoughts about the future, about past failures, about current stresses.

And part of it is that I'm afraid that in the silence God will speak to me in a way that flips my world upside down. That He will show me things that have to change. That He will command me to do something I don't want to do. Or can't do.

After looking at these reasons more closely, I discovered that in fact all of them stem from a fundamental failure to recognize God as good. I fear that God is "out to get me" even though I know Him intimately. I fear that He is going to stretch me to a breaking point. He's going to give me things I can't do, just so that He can watch me fail.

It took a study in Mark 5 to begin to strip this fear away. In this particular passage, Jesus heals a demon possessed man by casting his demons into a herd of pigs. The herd of pigs go squealing into the ocean and drown (much to my chagrin). When looking at this from the perspective of the healed man, he is ready to do anything for Jesus. But the pig herders are enraged. Jesus took their very livelihood. They had nothing. So they sent him away in a rage. And that is exactly what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that Jesus will take something good (like my livelihood or my comfort) and flip it upside down, take it away, and leave me stranded.

But he offered them a new life. A new life that was infinitely better than herding pigs. It would be a new life doing his work, making him known. But they wanted nothing to do with it.

How is it that I view God as good only when things are going exactly like I want them to? Have I not considered that perhaps there is a greater story He is weaving, and that maybe I should give up my idea of goodness in order to play a part in the grander story?

My prayer these last few weeks has been that the Lord would align my heart to His. That I would call things good that He calls good; that I would work for His higher calling, ultimately seeking to become more like Him, the ultimate goodness. My desires as His desires.

Slowly, ever so slowly it's happening.

I now come home earlier, sit in silence a bit more often, and willingly seek His face more than before. Because I want His goodness in my life, even if that means letting go of my ideas of what is "good."

This Moment

It was late as I left my friend's apartment... filled. Filled with laughter, good food, new ideas, and thankfulness.

I scraped off my car in the silence of falling snow, a fresh inch or so covering my windows with white fluff. I was content. Content as I pulled my car into reverse and started what I expected to be a fifteen minute drive home.

Nope.

As my car careened between different tire tracks in the snow, trying to figure out which ones to follow, I pulled up to a stop sign where all I could see in the heavy snowfall was lights, glaring and flashing off of the sparkling snow. A tow truck loomed in the distance, a car just like mine stuck almost completely in a ditch, nose first, bottom seemingly levitating above the ground in a snowdrift.

I kept driving, listening for the scraping of ice under my tires, one hand ready to shift to an even lower gear in case I couldn't stop.

There was no traffic as I skidded through a red light.

I had made it through town practically crawling, probably irritating the drivers behind me. But there was no way I was risking a fishtailing, swerving, spinning out on this Friday night.

And that was the end to the "good" part of my drive.

The rest was a petrifying, white knuckle driving experience (had my knuckles been visible if I had not been wearing gloves). The snow was heavy, thick, and distracting as it pelted down on my windshield, distracting me from what was important: the curving road ahead. The cars behind me blinded me with their lights, while ahead was inky blackness. For miles I guessed where the road was and where the ditch was, frequently finding myself in the middle of the road since I was worried about spinning into the ditch.

To make matters worse, I had spotted an increasing number of deer carcasses on the road the past few days... as if I needed that to add to this mess of zero visibility.

I realized I was almost holding my breath, a sour taste enveloping my tongue as adrenaline flooded my veins. A large animal seemed to emerge from the side of the road. Or was it the splotchy vision in between thick flakes of falling snow, or the dark spots after being blinded by the pushy vehicle behind me?

I was muttering, praying, squinting, and nearly crying the whole way home.

Forty terrifying minutes later, I reached the safety of my driveway, the comforting slope into the parking spot just in front of my front door. I turned off my car. And just sat. Shaking. But even more filled with gratitude than when I had left.

As I reflected on that terrifying drive, I recalled how I had expected it to take just fifteen minutes. Twenty if I was being generous. Funny how my plans... for driving, or for my life, are rarely how I expect them to be. Five year plans? Yeah right.

Driving through those petrifying moments where I knew nothing but the distracting snow made it so hard to focus on what really mattered: the road. If I got too distracted by the billowing, blowing white, I would lose track of the road and surely end in the ditch. Focus focus focus. Turn off the brights. There's no point seeing so far down the road; only the falling snow is intensified.

So often I get caught up in my frustration of not being able to see the coming bends in the road: of what's next for me, for my future, where my life is headed... I want to turn on the brights and see everything laid out. But then I realize that the more I try to look beyond where I am, the more lost I become, the more impassable my current problems are, and the more hopeless the situation seems. My fears distract me, my worries, my doubts. When I focus on them, I see nothing. I see neither them in their true light, nor the road ahead. Once I turn off the brights and begin to focus on right where I am NOW, suddenly the distractions diminish, and I know to do the next thing. Keep driving: another yard, another foot, another inch. Or keep moving: another day, another minute, another second. In this moment, where do I need to be? What do I need to say? What do I need to do?

These forty minutes of terror taught me some new things about living in the moment -- about living in the present. Ironically, it was because I was terrified of losing all my future moments in that single drive home, and because I realized the intensity of the moment.

Every moment matters.
Living with intentionality matters.

What is the next thing? What will I do in this moment?

The Chord that ties it all together

Pretty much my whole life I have considered myself to be a musician. While certainly not Julliard-bound, I have worked long and hard at my two instruments, violin and piano.

Music lessons were a normal weekly routine since I was eight, and practicing was expected: a half hour on each instrument per day.

By high school, music was all-consuming. Competitive sports were not an option primarily because of the huge time commitment of music (and my lack of coordination...). Chamber music rehearsals beginning at 7 am, orchestra, independent study music, staying at school until sometimes 7 pm, fiddling the evening away.

My freshman year of college I was at my peak. I practiced close to two hours a day on the violin, and intended on minoring in music. I was playing in the Symphony of the Lakes, taking violin lessons, and beginning to understand the finer craft of violin. But I missed fiddling. I missed the friendships and the joy of performing pieces written in my memory, rather than etched on a page.

Halfway through the year, I found out Grace's music program was shutting down. In a way I was relieved; I was getting burnt out, and I was tired of continuing my two hours-a-day practice. I wanted to be with people, not stuck in a practice room. I knew I was no virtuoso, and so I decided to stop taking lessons, and to stop practicing.

For three years I took a hiatus from violin. I still occasionally played. But instead of two hours a day it was more like two hours a week (orchestra rehearsal). And that quickly dropped to two hours a month. If that.

Occasionally I would hear some amazing music, and everything in me would desire to be at that level again. But when I would unlatch my violin from its prison, it no longer sang. It sounded dull, squeaky, and annoying. So I practiced even less.

But the power of music would not allow me to keep away forever.

This year I was hired into a school that loves music. A school that desires to build that musicality in students from a young age. To challenge students through the arts, and to expose them to the world of music.

My passion for education, especially music education has exploded as I see the power it has in the lives of these kids I teach.

I got to host a fiddle band at my school... a fiddle band made up of the "kids" I fiddled with in high school. The students at my school were enthralled. And my love for music, the fiddle, and my desire for all kids to experience music in depth simply swelled. This was the kick-off for the start of my own fiddle club where beginning fiddlers can begin to experiment with this genre of music, and hopefully fall in love with it.

But today, my heart is full because a struggling little fourth grade boy held his half size violin high. He mastered a correct bow hold. He grinned and said, "violin is the best part of school." He hates reading. He hates math. He hates writing. And he won't behave. But music ties it all together. And he will do all of those for the sake of the music. Music is his behavior plan.

Trust

"Do you trust Me?" You ask.

You ask in the quiet, You ask aloud.

Amidst the raging storm You ask, and in the calm afterwards.

"Yes." I say.

Then take it back. Forever I am taking it back.

But You continue to ask.

"I've failed too much. You can't still be here. You can't still trust me?" I say in reply.

"But don't you get it? It's not about whether I trust you. It's Do you trust Me?"

"Even though I've failed You hundreds of times, even though I've hurt you even more... You still ask?"

My whole life. My whole existence has proved I don't. Not because You've failed me. But because it is impossible that You're still here... extending grace, loving more, asking me to trust again.

"Who are you, Lord?"

I am the One you can ALWAYS trust. From Alpha to Omega, I am here. Never will I leave you or forsake you. Never can you displease me enough. Never can you reject me enough. You are my beloved and you are Mine.

In search of Home

Christmas break was a delicious time spent at Home. Michigan-Home where I grew up and lived out most of my life. I love being in that cozy house, the padded floors, the steep stairs. I love being with my family... always playing games, eating tons of Hungarian sweets, and having meaningful, deep conversations.

But over and over I had to guard myself from calling Warsaw "home." Whenever my tongue would slip, there was an awkward silence, a glance around the room. Then everyone would kind of chime in... "you mean... Indiana..." By the end, it kind of became a joke, and even my mom accidentally called Warsaw "home."

I know I've had a fair number of posts about this concept of Home, but it's probably because it is one that is frequently on my mind. I frequently refer to different places as Home, and happen to irritate or hurt people who don't see it the same way.

In some ways, it's like introducing one best friend to another best friend. They both share my heart equally, but they play very different roles (which begs the question.... do I really have a best friend? So we move on.) So it is with Home.

I have experienced much frustration at trying to define these things. I've always thought that one day when I have my own home and my own family, that's when home will be Home. But let's face it. It won't be. It will carry the name. But Michigan-Home will still be part of my heart. So will Hungary-Home, Indiana-Home, Switzerland-Home and all other Homes in between.

Today I happened across a verse that talked about God blessing and protecting the sojourner (Ps. 146:9). Above it, I had scrawled a cross reference to Hebrews 11:13-16. So I flipped forward searching eagerly for more about these wanderers. This comes in the middle of what we call "The Hall of Faith" where the author of Hebrews lists off heroes of the Bible and how their faith saved them... not because they never messed up, but because their hearts believed the Lord and His promises, and Grace was given to them.

These words spoke truth to my wander-filled heart: "These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.... they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city."

I love this.

Because these people, these Heroes: Abel, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob... they didn't cling too tightly to their homes. In fact, when God told them to GO, they did... without hesitation. They didn't even know WHERE they were going! They just went. And God didn't just give them a place to go, He gave them an eternal home.

Because they were content to wander, to be ready to move when God told them to move, because they desired a heavenly country more than storing up places on earth, the Lord, God of the Universe, wasn't ashamed to be their God. Wow.

I haven't moved nearly as much as some people. But my heart attaches to homes. My heart wants a Home. While I like the idea of short-term wanderings and getting lost, my heart longs for permanence.

How good it is to know that there is permanence, even for the wanderer, if He wanders for the Lord!