Brave Living

As the minute hand crept closer and closer to the twelve, the TV blaring out the countdown to midnight, glasses clinking, and Dad yelling excitedly about "changing the calendars," I raised my glass to 2015. The year I would embrace bravery.

At the start of 2015 I pondered what it meant to be brave, and as I like to choose a single word for the new year, I carefully selected the word brave. And I've been a bit terrified ever since. Terrified of why the word brave would be the word that would define my year. Why the one thing I lacked in perhaps the greatest ways would become my focus for the coming year. But you can read that post here.

The purpose of this post is to take a moment to report back about a year of brave living...

It didn't seem too remarkable at first. But just like with anything, the challenges grew and grew.

2015 was a year...
of multiple trips to the basement, despite all my childhood fears.
of reconnecting with old friends, despite being afraid that too much had changed.
of driving to Indiana on snow-covered roads, cars littering the side of the highway, dented and damaged.
of researching a Masters' program in ESL or Gifted and Talented Education.
of signing up to take my middle school licensure exams in both history and English Language Arts.
of skiing for the first time since the age of twelve, without falling.
of failing my middle school licensure exam in English. The only test I've ever failed. But I picked up the pieces, studied again, and passed.
of loving my students fiercely, even when people told me I had shown too much grace.
of sharing the gospel with someone I never thought I could.
of living on mission more than any other year of my life. 
of embracing the gift of singleness, without panicking about being forever alone.
of roadtripping across the United States with a friend (North to South).
of memorizing more scripture than I thought my brain could ever handle.
of exploring new places, and revisiting old ones as a tour guide.
of being vulnerable when the stakes were high.
of letting go of the need to have a "best" friend, and of embracing better friendships that draw me closer to Jesus. 

of being silent even when all I wanted to do was blast the radio.

of being called somewhere different, somewhere familiar-new

of being obedient

of laying my life, my plans, my all before my Lord, and saying "yes" to Hungary. "yes" to teaching at the International Christian School of Budapest. "yes" to going as a missionary, "yes" to following His call to be a wanderer, claiming citizenship in Heaven, and "yes" to making Him my portion.

When I christened 2015 as the year of Brave, I could sense change. I could sense that God was calling me somewhere new. And that I would have to be Brave.

Yet I didn't see this coming.

But instead of terror, there is quiet hope. Quiet hope in His presence, knowing that  
"The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; [He] holds my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance... [He] makes known to me the path of life; in [His] presence there is fullness of joy; at [His] right hand are pleasures forevermore." -Ps 16:5-6, 11.

Trust

Every morning I get to school well before my students arrive. Among other things, I carefully order my laminated schedule cards next to my whiteboard. I change the date. On a large section of the chalkboard I write each subject and what students will be expected to learn. I create a powerpoint that walks them through a morning to-do list when they enter the room so they are ready to start the day.

And every morning, without fail, my students walk in the door, come straight to me, and begin asking me questions about the day. "Do we have a test today?" "Why do we have math instead of library?" "Do we have second recess?"

When this happens, I become annoyed.

Though I go to great lengths to prepare them for the day, they are not content to just know what they need for the moment. They want to know the entire day, and why our day is scheduled the way it is. Sometimes they make suggestions for better ways to order our day, and wait expectantly for me to implement them.

The chaos of a moved table or desk is enough to warrant a whole new battery of questions. As each child walks in the room, a new explanation is required.

This week, I realized I was impatient with them even before the bell rang to start the school day. Shortly after the seventh person walked over to ask me why the table was moved, I had a realization.

I am just like these fourth graders. Don't I feel I need to know every step of the future before I can move forward in the moment? Don't I demand an explanation for a change in plans, and even offer input as to the way I think it should go? I want to be in control. I want input. I want things to go the way I feel comfortable.

But this need for control is really a disguise for distrust. As I think about my relationship with the Lord, I disguise my lack of trust in Him as a "need to know the future." I don't tell Him I don't trust Him. I just do things in my own timing, because according to me, His is too slow.

If I am truly to follow Christ, to do as He asks, and to be obedient, I have to trust Him. I have to trust the Good Shepherd to lead me to quiet pastures and away from danger, even if I cannot see it yet. Just like I have the big picture for what my students need for the day, the Lord knows what I need and when I need it.

I can trust Him. He is the best Shepherd because He knows what it's like to be a Lamb.

Autumn is a Dying Time

We inhale the crisp, autumn air as we set out on the leaf-strewn path. They crunch under our tread, while we look up and celebrate the colors of fall: golden hues of red, orange, and yellow under a pristine blue sky.

We are the classic autumn-aficionados, clutching pumpkin spice lattes in chilly hands, shuffling through flame-colored piles of leaves. We exhale, our breath leaving trails of illumined air, and scoot closer to the dancing fire to warm cold legs and fingers. The sparks dance and swirl into the night sky, joining the twinkling of the stars.

It's not just me. It's not just us. Autumn has a special draw. Pumpkin patches, apple orchards, corn mazes, and breath-taking multi-colored tree photos litter every social media site as everyone is eager to show their love and devotion to this beautiful season.

As a child I despised fall. It was such a dead season. Too cold for shorts and swimsuits, too warm for snowpants and igloos. It was rainy and damp and gray and gloomy. We went on color tours; we went to apple orchards. But to me, autumn just meant an in-between time. A waiting time between summer and winter.

But autumn isn't just a waiting time. It's a dying time. The leaves turn colors as a last protest of beauty before the bleak winter sets in. Yet they are dying, falling, rotting. And yet, there is beauty in the dying.

I love autumn because it gives me hope. It gives me hope that as I die to myself, my desires, and my own pursuits, there is beauty. There is beauty in surrendering the things I hold onto so tenaciously. Like a leaf letting go of its final grip on the branch,  I am learning to lay down my protests and anger and sail to the ground in surrender. As I shuffle through the vibrant leaves, I remember there is beauty here: amid the things I give up, the dreams, the plans... I don't just die to myself. I die to live.

One day the barren trees will be awake with buds. The buds will be blossoms, and the blossoms will burst into bloom. Leaves will unfurl, stretching after a long winter. And the trees will shake themselves alive, bursting with hope, joy, and energy.

But for now, autumn is a dying time. And there is beauty in the dying.

Rom. 6:11 - ... count yourselves dead to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus.

Enough

Social media is a powerful comparison tool. It can go from making you content with your life and situation to making you wish you had someone else's. But social media only reveals the good stuff. The stuff we're proud of. The stuff we want others to wish they had. To be jealous of us. (We might not admit to it... but we sure do like to show off...)

As I posted pictures of my summer, I was acutely aware that my life looked beautiful as I walked through cobblestoned streets, visited 800 year old churches and castles, and sipped delicious coffee with some of my best friends in Budapest. I know it looked easy. Adventurous. Exciting.

But.

Social media did not see the ugly things. The things that can ruin or mar even a beautiful place:

(let's start with the lighter things...) sweaty, muggy hot walks up the hill in 100 degrees, muttering under my breath because I missed the bus.

arguments over card games, and introvert meltdowns

stomach problems because I love coffee but my body doesn't

overhearing a rude comment about me in Hungarian because they thought I was a foreigner

being called rude almost every day due to my great Hungarian accent, but often complete failure to recognize important cultural cues. Like the time we got yelled at on the train for putting our feet up on the seat. Like the time I accidentally tipped too low, and the waiter taught me a lesson by bringing the change back in "nickels." Like the time I didn't use the correct greeting to the lady at the ticket window and she shook her head, glared at me, and loudly and over-dramatically greeted me the way she expected me to greet her.

the nervousness that overcomes me to even ask a silly question like how much something costs for fear that I will not be able to pronounce words as clearly as I hear them in my head.

how slowly my ability to express myself in English ebbs away, and my Hungarian is still weaker... when something I usually have such command over, like language, becomes a cage where I can't fully express my inner thoughts and feelings.

the constant imbalance of where I belong, what "home" means, and where I fit

an overwhelming longing for the way things used to be, for childhood, for family members who have passed, for unity, and for simpler days.

Sometimes these things seem silly, and other times they seem truly overwhelming. Especially being between cultures.

Sometimes I just want to celebrate the 4th of July like everyone else, and not feel a split allegiance when we talk about patriotism. Sometimes I wish I only spoke one language, only knew one culture, and only had one home.

Sometimes I desperately just want to be like everyone else.

It was in the midst of these feelings of discontentment that I happened to be reading the book of Joshua. I normally flip there if I need a quick reminder to "be strong and courageous," but this time, something else stuck out.

The Levites.

When Israel entered the Promised Land and started divvying up the land inheritance, everyone got some. Except the Levites. Several times the text stated, "But to the tribe of Levi, Moses gave no inheritance; the Lord God of Israel is their inheritance."

At first that sounded like the BEST inheritance ever. WOW. How do you inherit the Lord God? What a huge, beautiful, exciting inheritance. No land could possibly outdo that.

But then I took my eyes off of the Lord, and I began to wonder... did the Levites wish they could just be like everyone else? Why couldn't they have land like everyone else? Why couldn't they just be one of the 12? Why did God have to call them to this specific inheritance?

And in these wonderings, I realized that I wasn't just wondering about the Levites.

I was wondering about myself.

Why couldn't I just fit in with everyone else?

The Lord has called me, a Hungarian-American, to serve Him between cultures, fitting nowhere completely. And that's ok.

The Lord is my inheritance.

He is Enough.

Waiting on the Runway: Singleness

My childhood is peppered with memories of minty gum growing hard under the anxious chewing of "let's take off already!" Bleary eyes staring out the window wondering if maybe now is when we are finally going to stop taxiing and actually take off... Of announcements over the P.A. that it will be another half hour before we can be in the air.
After all the preparation, packing, and excitement, I want to be in the air, closing the gap between home and vacation, English and Hungarian, good friends and beloved family.

More and more I have heard singleness referred to in this same way. Singleness is a waiting time. A time where God is preparing you to be the best wife (or husband) for your future spouse. A time when He is trying to teach you things while you wait for "the one" to arrive in your life -- for the announcement that we're finally going to take off. The wait is over and we're rapidly closing the gap between "hello" and "I do," single life and married life......as if the greatest purpose in life is to arrive at the destination of marriage, NOT to together serve the designer and inventor of marriage, to unite and TOGETHER travel to the ultimate destination of serving God's greater purpose: His glory.

It's not about the special someone in my life who will treat me right and make my dreams come true.

It's about bringing the ultimate Someone the glory He deserves in each and every moment... not about what He's going to do for me.

It's not about becoming the best person I can be for my future spouse. It's about becoming more like Christ.

Singleness is not a time of preparation, waiting for the runway to happiness to clear.

Singleness is a time of action -- to single-mindedly pursue the Lord and exalt Him in each moment, instead of pursuing potential spouses. To fix my eyes on the Author and Perfecter of my faith... with or without a companion at my side.

Even though sometimes it feels like I'm on the runway, anxiously chewing my gum, eyes gazing outside looking for when my life is finally going to take off... I know that my journey started 15 years ago, when I decided to give my "YES" to the Lord.

So I'm not on the runway... I've already taken off, flying toward His destination.

Scales Again (Part II)

I remember the first time I played a scale on the violin. It was scratchy and slow, but I had played a scale, from start to finish, and each note had its place. It wasn't a playful piece of music, or anything that warranted applause. But I knew it was opening the door to notes I could begin arranging in a different order. To speak a new song.

Years later, scales were the start of every two hour practice session. Some days I would spend half an hour on scales alone. Listening to pitches, willing my fingers to go in their correct places, starting over when I hit a stray note.

My senior year I played a solo at State Solo and Ensemble. But this time, I didn't just have to play a piece of music. I had to play multiple scales (the hard ones with five flats!) and sightread too. I remember the week before the big day, I stood in front of the large mirror in front of the stairs. I played every scale, three octaves, fluidly without stopping. I paused to wonder at the way my fingers knew exactly where to go. I loved watching the violin and my hands in the mirror, almost as if they were disconnected from me... watching them do what they were expected to. Because of years of disciplined practice. Of mundane ten-minute scale exercises up and down the violin. Because of starting every orchestra rehearsal with five to ten minutes of scales. Eventually, scale times became a larger portion of practice time. They laid the foundation.

As I've been reflecting on the importance of discipline in learning an instrument, I am finding connections between a renewed focus I have taken on spiritual discipline, along with life discipline.

Somewhere between graduating high school, starting college, graduating college, and starting teaching, I have lost many of the disciplines I was brought up with.

Daily times in the Word

Memorizing Scripture

Regular times of prayer

Writing to process

Time management and time constraints on leisure activities

Limits on media and entertainment

Regular bedtimes

Healthy meals

Regular Exercise 

Reading for pleasure

Practicing musical instruments

In an effort to make myself appear in control and "all grown up," I began to throw out some of the disciplines and parameters that had been set up for me as a child. Of course this is natural, and I had to find my own course. At one time or another, I have thrown some (or all) of these out.

But as time has gone on, I realized that the balance and the structure and the "technique" with which I execute the next "concerto" of life is beginning to dwindle. Because I have neglected my scales. I have neglected what is most important. To ground me and give me a foundation to work with.

These past weeks, the six women in my Bible study have been reading and studying Ephesians. And each week we face a set of challenges (essentially, disciplines) that we want to work toward. For each one of us, they are different. But the accountability, the victory, and the celebrations are unanimous.

I've been focused on being steeped in the Word each day. I've been working to memorize larger chunks of scripture. I've been limiting my time on social media. I've been limiting my time with movies, trying to stay healthy by exercising several times a week, spending my extra time reading for fun, and keeping a gratitude list each evening, exploring new musicians and new music.

I used to be annoyed with people that would create the parameters and limitations for me. But now I am thankful for those who taught me to practice scales, to memorize scripture, to eat healthy so that now I know where to pick up. Just like my fingers remember their place after months of no practice, so my life is remembering what it's like to have discipline. What it's like to set boundaries and keep them: between work and play, pizza and salad, study and entertainment.

I'm so thankful for the challenge to go back to the basics -- the necessary scales -- of my life so that I can continue growing as a musician, a teacher, a learner, to become more like the way I was created to be.

Scales Again (part I)

I have been teaching violin to a few students this past year, and I'm beginning to realize something. Something that shouldn't have taken me this long to realize.

Discipline takes time. 

My violin journey began as a four year old on the shores of Lake Balaton in Hungary. A small fiddle band was playing some energetic music under the lights. The mosquitoes and moths danced to the jigs and reels. I remember looking at the performers and knowing I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to play the violin.

That dream continued, quietly under the surface, during years of piano lessons and frantically completed theory assignments on Wednesday afternoon before 5pm lessons.

Then, finally! I was in the large home of a well-known violinist in our community. I was clutching my very first rental violin, a half size, learning what it meant to hold it, take care of it, rosin the bow, and place it on my shoulder.

I remember when I first started taking lessons: when my 17-year old violin teacher played me songs at the back of Book 2... she highlighted fourth fingers and was relentless with making me play, even when it hurt.

Then she graduated and I had the Discipline Man. He almost made me quit. I lost my love for violin under piles of scales, Schradieck exercises, etudes, and shifting. "Can you articulate that?" "Turn your wrist in," and "Show me your bow hold" were regular and frustrating parts of my violin life. I would go home and practice until the notes blurred on the page, and still my fourth finger refused to stay in position, my wrist still touched the violin where it shouldn't, and I was miserable. I hadn't even learned to play one real piece of music during that painful year.

But something was changing. I had a foundation. So the following year when I took lessons from a masters student, I flew through three books in six months. Fourth finger was no longer torture. I could execute a shift without overshooting. I could place my fingers exactly where they needed to be.

After she left to continue her studies, I took up lessons with the man I still think of as my violin teacher. He showed me the metronome. And he knew I despised it... so he brought it to lessons. He knew that even though I tried to practice at home with it, I would get frustrated. So he hauled out his enormous ticking metronome, plopped it on the table, and played each piece, each exercise with me. And I heard my mistakes and corrected.

My scales were mostly perfect, my shifts were clean, and my articulation was clear.

My freshman year of college I was back to more scales, a different school of thought, but more practice than ever before.

And then, my violin journey came to a screeching halt. The closure of the music school brought an abrupt end to my music minor. And to music as any sort of continued career. I quit violin lessons, eventually dropped out of community orchestra, and stopped practicing.

But now as I teach my students, I have had such a hunger for learning. For scales and arpeggios, etudes, and working toward a goal. I even miss my obnoxious metronome.

So Friday I came home from school. I dropped my bags by the door, headed straight to the back room for my music stand, and played scales and etudes and arpeggios until my fingers remembered their place, until my shifts were clean again, and the pieces I was working on were once again recognizable. I have a long way to go.

But discipline must start somewhere.

My lack of practice burnt me out. It made me unhappy. It felt like I was wasting the talents and skills I once had. Every day I left my violin at school, knowing I was forsaking the opportunity to practice, and to get better.

I don't want to have regrets about wasted lessons, wasted money, and wasted talent. I want to continue to learn, grow, and work toward becoming the best player I can, with or without lessons.

As much as I hated practicing scales and etudes, I realize that I have the skills literally at my fingertips, waiting to be summoned again because of the years of intense, rigorous practice. Of years of violin teachers who refused to let me just play the fun stuff. Of years of tears, and anger, and threatening to quit.

Because anything worth having is worth working for. 

Because discipline is hard work.

Because discipline takes time.

Brave

The lights in the movie theater grew from their faint glow to a bright glare, as they erased the darkness and the magic after watching the final Hobbit movie. Most of the theater had emptied in a bustle of coats and scarves, while crushed popcorn was hastily being swept up by high schoolers in maroon uniforms.

I was not ready to leave just yet. I leaned my head against the back of my chair, and sighed. It didn't matter so much that it didn't follow the book closely. I was still relishing the moments of heroic bravery, sacrifice, and courage that each character so keenly possessed.
The Lord of the Rings is possibly my favorite story, and I think it comes down to the epic plot, the triumph over evil, and the infinite bravery of the characters. I value this story and these characters so much, because they have what I do not: bravery.

I am not brave.

I pondered this in passing as I watched the character Alfrid dress as a woman to avoid fighting. He became a laughingstock not only for his people in the movie, but was also offered as comic relief to the gruesome, yet epic, battle scenes (that make up pretty much the whole movie). His cowardice is repulsive, as is his character.

I realized that I am nothing like my most favorite characters because I am terrified of a risk or a challenge, mainly because I'm afraid of failure. I'm terrified of defeat. Sam's loyalty even in the face of death, Frodo's courage to continue on against all odds, Aragorn's fierce fighting for the sake of what is right... Eowyn, Arwen, (and Tauriel) find their place among men, fiercely defending and fighting alongside the men they love.

And me? I'd be making for the caves as fast as I can.

I'm the one afraid of everything. Afraid of the spiders that lurk under the stairs, afraid of the dark, afraid of intruders, and afraid of being alone. I overpack, in case of emergencies. I am terrified of fires and natural disasters, of separation from the people I love.

But most of all I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid of the future, of what is to come. I'm afraid of getting stuck in a rut, yet I'm afraid of getting out.

I give up easily, and very rarely find in me any courage to keep fighting when I lose hope.

As a New Years Resolution junkie, I like to ponder the old year before welcoming the new one. I like to look forward to what is to come, while honing my focus to perhaps a word, an idea, a mantra for the future.

I sat down to think about the focus of 2015.  

What is my focus going to be?

As I began reflecting, I came up with some good ones:
thankfulness
joy
being an encourager

But none of them truly gripped me. I felt uninspired, but figured I couldn't go wrong with something like thankfulness.

Then my mom handed me the pot of cabbage and sent me down the basement steps into the cellar under the stairs where I know there are spiders the size of quarters that lurk in the shadows. 
I watched Captain America and pondered good versus evil, truth versus lies, courage versus cowardice.
I drove through treacherous conditions, watched cars spin out in front of me, and gripped the steering wheel in terror.
I felt the fierce beating of my heart when I knew I should speak up, yet sealed my lips until my heartbeat found a slower pace once again.
I considered the future and felt lost, uncertain, and fearful...

And then I felt a quiet reminder in the words of Aslan in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader: "Courage, Dear Heart," spoken in the midst of Dark Island where the worst nightmares come alive.

I know I'm not brave. I know I'm rather the opposite. But too often my fear straps me down from experiencing true freedom. My fear often keeps me from doing what I know I should...

I want to be Brave. I want to go forward with a healthy dose of caution (in the words of Mufasa, "being brave doesn't mean you go looking for trouble"), but I want to try new things, expand my horizons, and stand my ground instead of fleeing when I feel the tremors of fear start in my heart. I will wait for the Lord to illumine the path for me, so that I may walk obediently and boldly in the way He has marked out for me.

And so I will start this year at the very last verse of Psalm 27: Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!"