Presence Reflections

I'm sitting in a newly discovered coffee shop super close to my Budapest-home, and I'm reflecting on all that has changed in 2016. I could spend time mentioning the devastation, disappointments, and shocks of 2016 worldwide news... but let's face it. There are people who get their livelihood from studying that stuff and writing about it.

As I think about this past year, and the word presence that was my focus (blogpost here), I see a very clear dichotomy: Times that I chose the Lord's presence, and times I hid from it. Times I chose to be present with His people, and times I chose to disengage.

More than any other year, 2016 has been a year of transitions. January saw me teaching 4th grade in rural Indiana, living with a close friend, and feeling entirely independent. December found me teaching middle school history in a capital city of two million, an ocean away from my closest friends and family, living with my grandma, often feeling reliant on others for simple tasks.

I've tried to transition gracefully, but there are times I know I failed. I know there were times I ran from the Lord's presence instead of running to Him. There were times I avoided people because it was too overwhelming to love, while knowing I was leaving.

But I also realized that my greatest blessings came in times when I did choose presence. Choose. Because being present and seeking God's presence is a daily choice. An hourly choice. A moment by moment choice. To choose to live in community, or in isolation. To choose to rely on myself, or rely on Him.

During the season of support raising, I discovered my greatest failures were weeks (yes, weeks) when I relied on myself. When my pride crippled me from asking for help. It was only when I humbled myself, and sought the Lord's face, (and His people), that He provided. Abundantly more than I could have ever asked or imagined.

I learned to be present in a classroom and a school I knew I was leaving even before the school year started. Though there were daily difficulties and frustrations, I learned what it looks like to invest the temporal (time and resources) into eternity (souls). I learned what it means to plant seeds and be content to leave them to someone else to water and harvest.

There were moments I gave up deep peace because I refused to come to Jesus. I refused to tell him my burdens because I felt like I couldn't. But looking back, I have only myself to blame for any distance I felt this year. Because I'm the one always keeping him away. Sometimes I don't want to bother him with my foolish stories, my silly victories, my heartbreaks because he has much more important things to deal with. Like ISIS and the refugee crisis and the election. Other times I'm like the little girl on her two wheel bike for the first time: feisty and independent. I push him away the moment my "training wheels" are off. Because I can handle things by myself. He runs close beside me, holding onto me as I pedal fast and furiously... but I yell for him to let go and let me go and to give me space. And almost instantly I'm on the ground, nursing my wounds and whimpering. Too embarrassed to ask him to pick me up. But he's already there. Arms outstretched. All I have to do is nod and he's holding me, comforting me, praying over me. Sometimes I'm the teenager storming past him in my world of noise. Too embarrassed to acknowledge him in front of my friends, questioning our relationship and wondering if it's really worth everything. I slam the door in his face even when I feel the tug to be open and share my heart with him. And then, when my heart breaks, he's the one knocking on my door quietly asking for me to let him in. He reminds me of his love, even though there's a part of me that always doubts. I've been afraid to accept the kind of unconditional love that he offers because I know I can't give it back. Because I know I will hurt him thousands of times. And yet, still he is there, forever offering his presence.

And of course the theme of everything this Christmas was "Emmanuel, God with us" (in English and Hungarian), reminding me over and over that the greatest gift is His presence. The fact that infinite God became confined in the body of an infant. The fact that He knew that intimacy is only achieved through vulnerability (thanks Ann Voskamp). And so, seeking perfect intimacy, He left His heavenly throne to become the most vulnerable: a baby, born in a stable, laying in the filth and muck of this world. To bridge the gap between heaven and earth. The holy and the impure. And yet, that stable, that manger, that hay became a holy meeting place of the perfect and the imperfect. And it transformed the world forever.

I have failed many times to be present, but I have learned the gift of His presence. I have learned that there is deep peace to be found in His presence. Even when I think it will do no good. Even when I think I'm too busy or it's a waste of time, or that it will never offer the peace I'm looking for.

Because in His presence there is fullness of joy which can be found nowhere else. Because His presence is a taste of heaven and eternity on this tired earth: when God will forever make His dwelling place among man, and He will be their eternal comfort.

My Language Crutch

In September I joined the gospel choir at my church. It has been exhausting and wonderful all at once. Since I have never sung in an official choir, it's been a bit of a learning curve for me. Then there's the whole part about having to sing and clap at the same time (something I'm still working on).

There were several reasons why I thought joining would be a good idea. The first was that I miss having music as part of my life. I've missed being part of a music-making entity, and I figured the choir was the most accessible. I also wanted to build relationships within the church I'm attending, since it's rather large. The choir itself is rather large too: 150-200 people! However, I've been slowly finding my niche in the alto section, though I'm still shy.

We have spent many rehearsals practicing our English, which always makes me feel a bit awkward. When we start a rehearsal chanting, "There-is-a-name-far-above-all-others" for a good five minutes because we're practicing transitioning our tongues the "r" in "far" to the "a" in "above," I try not to giggle. There are just some things I take for granted as an English speaker, and being able to say "far above" back to back is one of them.

But I have also noticed that I use English as a crutch. Whenever I sit next to a Hungarian, I find myself immediately trying to work in the fact that I "just moved here" or "I've never lived in Hungary before" or "I teach at the American Christian school in Diosd" in the first five minutes of conversation. Or perhaps after a brief introduction, when someone comments on my name, I feel the need to immediately explain why they may find it rare or strange, "Well actually, I'm American..."

After catching myself doing this with the fourth or fifth new person, I began to wonder why I do it.

And I realized several insecurities.

The first is that I am insecure in my ability to form Hungarian friendships. This is why I immediately drop the fact that I'm American in order to add an "interest" factor that would perhaps cause people to be interested in being friends with me.

The second is that I am entirely insecure about my ability to communicate in Hungarian. I feel like the speed at which I speak, my 6th grade vocabulary, and my inability to make jokes and puns all strap me down in communicating.

Third, I find that I have a hard time understanding hurried conversations in between songs. Hungarians seem to speak quieter, mumble more, and make jokes that always go over my head. Smile and nod is my go-to.

This directly affects my pride. I've always prided myself in being a good communicator. I don't like the fact that I feel trapped by language. And the last thing I want is for someone I just met to think that I can't communicate clearly, effectively, or humorously.

My accent doesn't give me away, I just sound like I can't put my thoughts together. And it's embarrassing.

I rely on English, and on my "American" identity, to explain away my insecurities. My entire life I have been emphasizing my "multi-cultural," Hungarian identity, and yet when I'm here, I keep leaning on my American identity.

It wasn't until I tossed my English crutch aside that some friendships started forming. I have people that sit next to me, who chat with me in between breaks, and who enjoy a (poorly executed) joke here and there.

Our concerts are this weekend, and I'm so excited to be able to sing (in both of my heart languages), dance and clap (occasionally on the beat), and celebrate the birth of the Savior through gospel music!

He's still writing my story

I was standing in front of a room packed full of people -- people I had known from even my youngest years of living in Michigan. Their encouraging smiles and nods as I shared my story of how God had prepared me to move to Hungary only further assured me of my calling.

As someone who loves writing and reading, stories have always fascinated me. I vividly remember the time when I first realized the Bible was telling one narrative. Lounging in the lush grass on my college campus, flipping pages in the gentle breeze, I was overwhelmed with the Grand Story: the narrative of God's incredible love for mankind, despite our continual failures.

However, it wasn't until years later that I began considering the way my own life story fit into the grand narrative He was weaving.

After tracing back key events, starting with the very family I was born into, I saw the story the Author was writing. Each event contributed to the rising action of the plot of my life. And then came the climax: the part when I waved good-bye to my parents in Detroit, boarded a plane, and started life teaching in Hungary.

In so many ways this story is so much harder than I ever predicted, expected, or accounted for... even if I knew there would be challenges. Sometimes even the smallest things are the things I miss the most.

Like when I long for my mom's warm, familiar hug or my dad's sniff as he wraps his arms around me, but an ocean and six hours lie between us

Like daily walking past the hopelessness of poverty, alcoholism, and brokenness that seem beyond repair

Like iMessage dinging in the afternoon to reveal a gorgeous picture of my dear friend dressed in white half an hour before her wedding I wish I could witness

Like the sun bidding us good-bye as the final bell rings, plunging my lesson planning and commute into darkness

Like turning on a song that immediately transports me back to time with my fourth graders: how I miss those precious kids

Like blasting music while cleaning and having impromptu dance parties with my roommate when it's way past our bedtimes

Like drowning in curriculum, constantly faced with my own inadequacy and unpreparedness, regardless of how much time I spend in preparation

Like going home without checking over lesson plans (and weekend plans) with my co-teacher because it's just me

Like barely seeing the diamond my brother is showing me, because webcams weren't built for showing off engagement rings, and let's be honest... my vision is blurry anyway because of the tears welling in my eyes

Yet it has been so rich. So much better than I ever could have imagined, or hoped for. There is so much blessing in obedience.

Like the precious times I get to spend with my Nagyi, reading Narnia in Hungarian or hearing about her amazing life

Like the breathtaking beauty of the city as the sun's rays reflect from the Danube and strike the windows of the Parliament building, scattering light and beauty

Like the laughter of Hunglish Bible studies with seventh grade girls

Like the breathless jaunt up Gellert Hill to look out at the city as lights flicker along the bridges, reminding me of my calling to be a bridge between cultures

Like the eighth grader who turned around in the doorway to thank me for being real with her about my faith

Like a class of rambunctious sixth graders that remind me so much of my students I've left in the States

Like moments of enlightenment... when curriculum makes sense and my passion for history inspires my students into discussions that continue after the bell rings

Like precious emails and notes from students who remind me that what I do really does matter

Like worshiping in a church where my spirit soars and my soul is nourished

Like the friendships that are deepening, growing, and expanding my understanding of who God is

Like being drawn ever closer to the Author of my story

From all my reading and analyzing plots of various stories, I know that after the climax of a story comes the resolution. The denouement. So it would seem reasonable to expect that after the very climax of my life up until this point, the plot points are simply making sense of loose ends, wrapping up the story, and preparing for a satisfying conclusion.

I find myself constantly surprised when instead of tying loose ends, my story seems to unfold with more and more plot twists, and even more possibilities. When the denouement is really the first chapter of the next story.

Yet why should I be surprised?  He's still writing my story.

The Author of the Grandest Story is still writing my story. I can trust Him.

A Middle School Heart

I have a middle school heart.

It's the feeling that every whisper and every snicker is about me.

It's the insecurity of feeling surrounded by awkward moments and feeling unable to take control.

It's the heart that wavers under the weight of what people think.

My middle school heart wants to be liked. Wants to be acknowledged. Wants to be known. Wants to be heard.

My heart is going through that awkward brace-face phase where it's being pushed and tugged and straightened as I try to acknowledge the Lord in my ways, and as He makes my paths straight.

My heart is going through that awkward zit-on-your-nose embarrassment where it feels like all my insecurities are bubbling to the surface, unable to be masked or hidden, visible for all.

My heart is going through an awkward growth spurt as it learns to love deeper, love less conditionally, and love in ways that don't come naturally to me.

When I tell people that I teach middle school, I love watching their faces. There is always a kind of cringe in their response. Everyone has some kind of horror story from middle school. The cringe says it all.

Five years ago I sat in a class learning about teaching middle schoolers. I had just added a middle school endorsement to my major, and I was feeling good about my decision. After all, adding a middle school endorsement would make me more marketable in a year and a half when I was looking for a job.

As my textbooks and notebooks were sliding off that tiny desk in Mount Memorial Hall, my heart felt a tug. I want to teach middle school. It wasn't just about making myself look good anymore. It was the longing in my heart. I want to be a part of this in-between!

Despite the awkwardness, I think middle schoolers are beautiful.

They're the unfinished bowl on the potter's wheel, lopsided, rough, ungainly, yet so very moldable.

They're the primer on the walls of a freshly painted room. They're a shade of what is to come. They are the beginning of something new and good and beautiful.

They're the caterpillars tucked away inside the chrysalis, wrapped in webs of confusion and self-doubt. And yet, in a few short years they will emerge as confident butterflies. There is beauty in that confusion, that self-doubt, that slow transformation.

I want to draw out that potential: from the smoothing of the wet clay, to the hues of color to come, in the depths of the chrysalis.

I want to challenge them to be shaped, to shine bright, to step out.

And in doing so, I realize my own heart is being transformed: molded and formed in the hands of the Potter to leave the warmth of the chrysalis in order to shine brightly for Him.

From the top step

I pulled open the heavy door and hurried out. My bus was on its way and I didn't want to miss it. My mind was preoccupied with all of the to-do lists and tasks for when I get to school.

I was about to race down the stairs, two at a time, but at the top of the steps, my breath caught in my throat. The sunrise over the city was blue and purple and orange and red. Below, the familiar sights of Castle Hill and the Catholic church stood, silhouetted against it. But after going down just two stairs, the entire sunrise was hidden, and all I saw were bluish gray clouds that hovered low over the city, and dark green shadows of trees that crowded out the view.

As the gate creaked shut behind me, I contemplated this. I thought about the fact that sometimes I get a grand glimpse into what God is doing. And other times it seems like I'm staring up at a cloudy, dreary sky wondering if God is even working at all.

I smiled to myself, that God had revealed his beautiful sunrise to me, from the top step, and it made the gray more manageable. I knew the sun was coming, it was just hidden.

On my way to the bus stop, I paused outside of a small gate. Since childhood, this gated house has been one of my favorites. It's wedged between what used to be a small store, and another row of larger houses. When I was little, I would stop because a big husky used to live there, and I loved to see if it was out. Though I no longer stop to visit the dog, I do still pause and peep through the white iron gate. It's hardly wide enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder, but it has one of the best views of the city.

The stairs lead downward, but seem to drop off into the sky. The trees, though fully grown, do not crowd out the sky or skyline.

This morning, this little gate did not disappoint. The white iron bars seemed to frame the blues and yellows and purples, and for the second time that morning, my breath caught in my throat.

It's these little moments when it seems as though God teaches me more about Himself. That sometimes in the most unassuming places, I catch a deeper, more beautiful picture of His plan. While I could stand and gaze for the entirety of the sunrise, He reminds me I have work to do, here and now.

With a sigh I move on, and stand gazing down the gray street, waiting for the bus. The light from the sunrise and the glory from that moment seem enveloped in the mundane. Yet there is purpose here. I know that God is working behind the scenes.

As I sat on the bus, gazing out the window (but mostly at my reflection since it was still dark), my eyes searched for that glorious sunrise. And just when I thought I might miss the entire show, the bus turned a corner and the entire city lit up as golden sunlight streamed between the buildings.

I delight to serve a God who reveals bits and pieces of His glory, of His plan, and then gives me ordinary places to make His glory known.

It's these little morning moments with my Creator I wouldn't trade for anything.

Known

The hardest part about moving across the world is losing what's familiar.

It's losing that sense of knowing things, like what's expected when you go to a cafe and want to order a croissant and a coffee.

It's losing that sense of knowing people... of knowing the face your roommate makes just before she bursts out laughing. Or knowing what people are doing at any given point in the day. Or living life alongside of them, moment to moment.

It's losing that sense of being known. Of having people stop you in the hallway to see if you're ok because you happened to walk in to school a bit slower and more "weighed down" than usual. Of having a coworker bring you your favorite Starbucks drink just because. Of having someone know just how to encourage you, what scripture to pray over you, and how to breathe life back into your tired soul.

Sometimes as I walk the city streets, a face in the crowd, just one of hundreds on their way to work, I feel empty and alone. Do they know what my passions are? Do they know what makes me laugh or  burst with joy? Do they know what makes my heart heavy, and what threatens to rend it in two?

It's in these moments of gazing into bleary-eyed morning faces, trying to keep my eyes down instead of staring, that I remember Truth:

O Lord, you have searched me, and you have known me. You know when I sit, and when I rise, you are familiar with all of my ways. Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, Lord. (Ps. 139)

The way the red sunlight creeps over the city as I get on my first bus, and the way it bathes the gray streets in gold by the time I get on my second one is a quiet joy. It reminds me to look to the One who knows me. He knows how much a sunrise delights me, uplifts me, fills me with peace and joy for the day. It reminds me to cast my cares upon Him, because He knows me, and He cares for me.

And in His goodness, He is also gifting me with people to walk alongside of me and to take time to get to know me. He knows this brings me joy too.

In The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis quotes about friendship: "Friendship is born at the moment when one man says to another "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"

I am so thankful this season has been filled with these moments.

There is joy in the discovery, and in being discovered. It's not always comfortable, but it's good.

Lover of the Light

I intensely dislike bugs and insects, especially winged ones... and winged ones that dive at my head. 

Last night a large moth somehow ended up in my room, wildly beating its wings and smacking into the wall as I was trying to have some quiet time to reflect on the upcoming school year. My pen stopped its furious scrawling, and I looked up to glare at the offender. It was smaller than the racket it was making.

I had been contemplating what it means to "be still," and to simply dwell in the Lord's presence, despite the neverending to-do list of being a first year teacher in a new country.

I watched the moth again. It dove furiously at the small light fixture, exhausting itself in the pursuit of the light. And for the first time, instead of annoyance I felt pity. Every time it got close to the light to settle in for the night in the heat of the bulb, it would suddenly fly off, dipping and swerving around the room until it had worked itself to exhaustion. It would carefully land on the light again, only to flit away.

As much as I was annoyed, I realized that I'm so much like that annoying moth. I'm always flitting about trying to be more holy, or do more, or please God more. But my attempts at "dwelling" are only me running around in circles. At the exact moment I learn to be still, I run away.

In all its striving, the moth just knocks into things, and actually distorts the light by casting its own (gross) shadow everywhere.

Today was a day I've been looking forward to for over a year. It's taken over a year of preparation to arrive at this particular "first day of school." I've jumped through hoops, I've raised support, and I've accomplished a seemingly endless list of tasks, not to mention moving countries.

It's easy to think that I got myself here. That it was through my hard work that I am now teaching middle school at the International Christian School of Budapest. But when I slow down long enough to check my pride, I remember the way the Lord had led me each step of the way. It was in the quiet moments of dwelling in His presence that I was able to move forward.

I'm learning to cease striving. To be still. To dwell. 

Bridges

It was in the throes of last week's culture shock that I picked up a book that has long sat on my bookshelf. (Well... not that long here, but a long time at home.) It's called Praying the Attributes of God. It examines each of God's attributes and leads the reader through prayer accordingly.

This summer as I was teaching VBS, one of the other leaders daily reminded our middle school students of a quote from A.W. Tozer: "What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us." I have been mulling over this lately, so I figured this book would be a good way to examine who God really is, according to His Word.

Last week's attribute was accessibility. It came at just the right time... I spent an entire week going over the scripture passages, and focusing on what it meant that God was accessible.

Though I can never truly mine to the bottom of what it means for God to be accessible, I eagerly turned to the next chapter on Sunday.

Creator.

I'll be honest. I let out a mini inward groan.

Because when I think about God being the Creator, I immediately think about the Creation vs. Evolution debate I have listened to countless times. I think about "Scientists" vs. "Creationists." I think about the intellectual debates that often seem to undermine everything Christianity stands for... about ad hominem arguments (on both sides) that draw attention away from the most important questions.

I was worried I would read ten passages telling me that God created the world, and I was already disappointed since this would have very little bearing on my real life.

But of course, I was so wrong.

Because to acknowledge God as Creator means to acknowledge myself as creation. To acknowledge God as Creator means to humble myself before Him, and recognize that He knows better. To acknowledge God as Creator means to acknowledge His omnipotence, His infinite creativity, and His ability to solve any problem within the blink of an eye.

It means that it takes me off the "throne." It takes the pressure off of me to be "perfect." It means that when scripture says "My help comes from the Lord, the maker of Heaven and Earth," (Ps. 121:2)  it means that the same God that invented the Heavens and the Earth is the one that comes to my rescue.

This week I have asked Him for a bit of His creativity as I have been designing lesson plans. I have asked Him for help countless times. And I worshiped Him even as the rain poured from a gray sky, because "the Heavens declare the glory of God," not only in a Jamaican sunset (or let's be honest... a Winona Lake sunset), but in a dreary, drippy overcast day.

But today I reached the "confession" part of the book. It acknowledges shortcomings that have to do with this attribute. Like the fact that I fail to worship Him as Creator. Or that I'm worried about small things when He has promised to help, and He is capable of so much more. But the one that really stopped me in my tracks was the one that read, "And forgive me for not thanking you for creating me just the way you did."

Prior to coming to Hungary, I intellectually took stock of the fact that I needed to be prepared to "not fit." Not in the sense that people would dislike me or that I wouldn't have friends. Rather, that there would be times when I feel like I don't fit in the American community because I'm too Hungarian, and that there would be times I won't fit in the Hungarian community because I'm too American. In some ways, this is nothing new than what I have felt in the States, I'm just better at faking it there ;)

Perhaps I've blogged about this before, but there are times I wish I could just be "normal." That I was monocultural, or that there wasn't always some part of me that felt out of place. And so as I was reflecting over this, I realized that I am in fact grumbling against my Creator. I am being ungrateful that He has created me in this way.

Today after our morning session of orientation I was chatting with a fellow staff member, and we turned to this subject. Through our conversation, the Lord began to impress a familiar-new metaphor on my heart.

I am a bridge.

I am not Hungarian only, or American only.
I have roots at both ends. Foundations at both ends.
But no bridge can stand without additional supports that come from neither side. My true foundation must come from the knowledge that my citizenship is in Heaven.

Being a bridge means that I am stretched in order to serve others by helping them connect to each other. By its very nature, a bridge spans a distance and closes gaps. It is a connector. And I am here in this Hungarian-American community, connecting people to each other. Helping translate, helping Americans practice Hungarian, and helping Hungarians practice English... guiding conversations about culture and helping people understand each other (to the extent that I understand it!)...

A bridge is solitary. It can be lonely stretching across cultures.
But a community finds strength in a multitude of bridges.

Then the sudden realization: You live in a city of bridges.

And the beauty and unity of this city, Budapest, is accomplished through bridges.

I am praising the Creator for making me a bridge. And I embrace the in-between-ness of being neither Hungarian or American, but both. And I'm praising the Creator for His creativity in placing me in a city of bridges where I can be continually reminded of His purpose for me.

At the very top

Pro tip: when moving to another country, make sure you buy waterproof mascara.

It wasn't until the moment I climbed into bed exhausted after a 14+ hour journey to Hungary that the tangle of indifference was completely detangled and the waterworks started...

I was overwhelmed with feelings of sadness at all that I left behind. It still hadn't sunk in even as I hugged my parents good-bye, climbed on the airplane, and landed in Budapest, embraced by my Hungarian family.

I was also overwhelmed with the deep joy of being in a place where I am 100% sure I am called to. A place where I know a new part of my story will be written.

But there in that moment, nestled under sheets that smelled like the familiar-new of everything about this place, everything I had decided was the logical next step, seemed absurd and risky and terrifying. It's that moment when you realize that each step you climbed to reach the top of a towering water slide was logical, until you're standing at the top and realize that the only way forward is to slide down into the terror and exhilaration that it holds.

I spent last Saturday at the top of the water slide peering down in terror and wonder at how I had gotten this far... peering this way and that, trying to talk myself into being okay. It was my first day in the city, at the market, out and about. Fear strangled words from my mouth, and they died in my throat. I speak this language, but I was too scared to try. I was too scared of mumbling nonsense and getting funny looks. I was too scared to buy a loaf of bread from the market. I was frozen. I tried purchasing my public transport pass from a machine but kept getting stressed about the long line behind me. I gave up three times and went to the back of the line before finally succeeding.

As I trudged up the worn cobblestone steps to the top of the hill, my footsteps beat in rhythm to a truth that was emerging from the noise and terror in my heart. Per-fect-love drives-out-fear. I was disappointed that after several hours in the hot city, I had only accomplished one thing on my to-do list. Per-fect-love drives-out-fear.

It's so obvious, yet I seem to have to learn this lesson a thousand times. I need Jesus. I need His presence. In all my pity-partying and fear-partying I had failed to go to the one who is Perfect Love. I had failed to seek His face. The Lord is so gracious. I just so happened to be reading 2 Chronicles (highly recommend it), and was utterly overwhelmed with account after account of kings who sought the Lord and He gave them rest. "...we have sought the Lord our God. We have sought Him, and he has given us peace on every side." -2 Chron. 14:7.

I am learning that God is accessible. That it doesn't matter that I'm six hours ahead of so many people I love, and that sometimes they're asleep when I'm well into my day. That my God is always accessible. And my greatest sin is that I haven't taken full advantage of the access He has given to me. I try to handle things by myself.

But now, in this familiar-new, my dependence on Him has increased exponentially. I can truly say I need Him every hour. And I am so thankful for an extra hour on both ends of my day to spend time with Him, in the breeze from the Metro, or the quiet muffled train to pray and lay my requests before my God.

I have scaled the height of my life's biggest water slide, I have felt the adrenaline pumping and the terror constricting my throat, but I know the Lord goes with me, and before me. This last week has been me letting go, pushing off, and feeling the freedom and joy of embracing this life. The fear is gone, and only Perfect Love remains. I am in awe of what the Lord has done and continues to do.

A thousand thanks to all those of you praying for me. Your prayers are palpable.

Here in the In-Between

I am here in the in-between.

Right now, my in-between looks like the airport in Paris, light streaming in, a faint hint of perfume lingering in the air, and an occasional lost sparrow pecking at a crumb from a long-gone traveler.

It's strange being between two worlds: the American home I've left behind, and the Hungarian home awaiting. I'm between two cultures, two languages, two worlds, two jobs, two families.

Everything about this three hours is transition, though all I'm feeling is peace. While the decision to move to Hungary has been monumental, it has been acted out in single, step-by-step choices. It started back last April, and it has continued (and will continue) as I scan yet another boarding pass, find my seat, eventually my luggage, and my new home.

I've always been taught to "do the next thing," and somehow this next thing is so natural and so normal. Though I'm sure there will be times where I will wrestle with these decisions, and I will miss my other home (as I've already processed some), this is just the next step.

I'm reflecting on how even the most incredible, momentous changes come in single steps. In single choices to move forward or to step away. Which makes me so thankful that my God promises to lead me step by step, offering His Word as a lamp for my feet.

Ps 139:5, 7-10 You hem me in, behind and before, You lay Your hand upon me... Where can I go from Your Spirit, where can I flee from Your presence, Oh Lord? If I go up to the heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me and your right hand will hold me fast.

Doubt

Certainty, surety, confidence, trust. These have defined my faith, my beliefs, and my actions. Waves of doubt for me, though infrequent, come primarily from distractions rather than true questioning of what I believe. However, I have watched the wrestlers and the doubters. I've listened to them with fascination. I've wanted to understand their struggles. There is beauty in the wrestling. In the grappling.

But then this summer I became one of them.

Never in my life have the waves of doubt crashed against me so hard. Never in my life have chunks of Truth eroded so quickly from the walls I had built.

I think sometimes we assume "successful" people don't doubt. Or that doubt is a sign of failure. Or sin. Doubt is quickly compounded with guilt, and the waves build into a towering tsunami. And in those moments, if you haven't addressed them and you haven't built walls against them, the waves will erode Truth.

In the heat of July, amidst planning and preparation for heading to Hungary, I felt an appalling futility of my faith and of everything meaningful. Though I've felt this before, it was stronger, more urgent. It urged me to abandon everything I valued. The Inconsequential suddenly flipped and became everything, and the Worthy and True became trivial, and worth betraying.

I began to panic. I began to wonder about my future, about how I could go forward. I felt fake and ridiculous. Is this what being a "missionary" looks like? This doubt? This uncertainty?

I knew I could throw it all away, or I could cling to the One who has sustained me. I read about Jacob wrestling with the stranger in the night... the Angel of the Lord. Jacob refused to let him go, even long after he should have given up. He demanded the Lord to bless him, and to make Himself known.

Digging in, I began rebuilding the walls of Truth. I surrounded myself with Psalm 119, memorizing stanza by stanza, meditating on the Truth of the Lord's Word. Slowly the storm passed and the waves of doubt ebbed away, until they were just quietly lapping against the bulwarks of Truth.

As terrifying as those whitecaps of doubt were, I cherish them. I cherish the memory of standing atop the lighthouse, surrounded by Truth, but watching the walls crumble, knowing the full effects of the storm's fury. I cherish the rebuilding after the storm, knowing that my God has helped me prevail over it. He has helped me quiet the wind and the rain. Even the storms of doubt will bow to Him.

Over eight years ago I read an Emily Dickinson poem that spoke deeply to me... but I had forgotten the title, and most of the words. I have searched and searched for it, and today I finally found it.

Water is taught by thirst;

Land, by the oceans passed;

Transport, by throe;

Peace, by its battles told;

Love, by memorial mould;

Birds, by the snow.

Since first reading this poem, I have been fascinated by the power of opposites. The power of knowing something by its opposite. Though a bit overplayed, it's also why I love "Let Her Go" by Passenger:

Well you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missing home
Only know you love her when you let her go
And you let her go

I have experienced the dark, swirling waters of doubt. But it is only through this experience that I can know the rock of certainty under my feet. It is this doubt that has allowed me to cling ever stronger to Truth. It is making a decision, counting the cost, and going forever forward.

I will treasure these moments of doubt because they have driven me closer to Jesus.

 

The tangle of indifference

My plane ticket is purchased, and I'm leaving for Hungary in just a little over a month.
I also have not blogged in a little over a month.

The two are interconnected.

I have had so many thoughts, but each time I pull up the "draft blog" window, I stare at the screen, the blinking cursor, and I have no idea how to express in words the current tangle of emotions (or sometimes lack thereof) that I find inside.

Since my last post, I have finished a school year with twenty-two fourth graders, torn down my classroom, said good-bye to the Eisenhower family, said good-bye to my roommate of two years, moved most of my stuff to Michigan, celebrated a wedding in Texas, went to TeachBeyond Orientation, went back to Indiana to officially move out and say official good-byes to some very dear friends, taught Vacation Bible School to a group of middle school students, and have tried to make Michigan home despite the tremendous assortment of bins, boxes, tubs, and laundry baskets full of classroom supplies and an entire apartment's worth of things.

However, my lack of blogging is not due to busyness. There have been plenty of moments where I could have hammered something out.

Rather, it has been the numb indifference I have felt through it all.

I am not someone who hides emotions well, and there were certainly some as I said good-bye to Eisenhower. But since then, there has been an overwhelming indifference.

And it has been scary.

I have tried to make myself grieve, because I figure the more grieving that happens here and now, the less I have to deal with later. I also have this strange need to show emotion, so people know how much I truly care. Indifference seems to say "I don't care about this relationship, I don't care about this chapter, I can't wait to leave."

I also know that I can't continue like this forever. And so at some point, the grief will come... and I want to be in control of when that happens... instead of having it burst out of me like it did at the teacher luncheon on the last day of school...

All this to say, these transitions have been hard. Especially when people want to limit the tangle to purely one emotion:

"Are you so excited?"

Yes, excitement is certainly a thread in the knot of emotions strangling my heart, but so is grief, disappointment, fear, loneliness, dread, thrill, curiosity, sadness, terror, determination, (I could keep going...)

I also realize people aren't going to ask, "Are you so sad? Are you so scared? Are you so lonely?"

Since moving home, I've been living amid boxes, bins, baskets, and heaps. My room (and the whole upstairs) just screams TRANSITION!

The one steady thing in all the transitions seemed to be my own emotional steadiness. My indifference. And I clung to it. Because I needed it.

But then the indifference burst. I climbed up the stairs, embraced by a wave of stifling humidity. I had been cleaning stuff, and moving stuff, and wrestling with stuff all afternoon. I was trying to untangle a knot of my favorite necklaces when I finally felt something. Anger. I was furious. Enraged. Livid. at the necklaces that dared to be tangled. the STUFF. transition, indifference, change.

I grabbed my journal and just started writing. It was the kind of writing that you can't read because your handwriting is so sloppy and enormous and you just don't care. Hot angry tears were chasing each other down my face, and plopping and smearing the ink. Finally, the tears stopped, my heartrate slowed, and I felt peace.

Ready to begin again, I calmly picked up the knot of necklaces.

It was a useless mass of something that could be beautiful. And I began thinking about all the mixed emotions tangled in my heart. They were useless. Because they were hidden in a tangle of indifference.

After fifteen minutes of seeing the untangling process as a puzzle rather than as an infuriating task, I had them laid out.

As I sat, gazing at them triumphantly, I knew this wasn't just about the necklaces. This was about picking apart the knot of emotions, feeling something, and laying each emotion before the Lord. Giving them over to Him, and allowing Him to redeem each God-given emotion for His glory.

As I thanked Him for giving me complex emotions, and for creating me in His image, I looked down and couldn't help but notice: in the middle was the little bronze-ish gold necklace with delicate letters that spelled "brave."

And I smiled through quiet tears as the Lord reminded me that it takes bravery and courage to untangle indifference.

Faithful in the Sowing

Three years ago I was expectantly heading into my first year of teaching. I spent the entire summer gathering supplies, building a classroom library, and dreaming about what it would be like to finally have a full-time teaching position: something I had longed for since sixth grade.

Today I sorted through these same supplies and my classroom library, giving away and leaving behind pieces of a fourth grade classroom.

Three years ago I picked up my keys and my badge and was welcomed into a building where I spent most of the hours of my day, surrounded by people who became like family to me.

Today I laid down my keys and my badge, hugged these "family members" good-bye, and allowed the doors to close gently behind me.

Three years ago I searched for a classroom theme that encompassed who I am and what I wanted my classroom to be. I settled on growth. (You can read about that here.)

Today I took down green colored posters and "growth"-themed decorations I've used for three years.

And I came face to face with a terrifying lie that had lurked under the encouraging theme of growth:

Their growth is your responsibility.

The last few weeks this lie had been gnawing at my heart as I examined where my students are now and where they were at the beginning of the year. It clawed at me as I looked at other classes and students I have taught. It clung to me as I saw people I had invested my time in fail to grow in the ways I had hoped.

Their growth is your responsibility.

After a particularly exhausting day, I watched the fourth graders on the playground as they buried themselves in the pea gravel, rolling in the dirt, covered in gray dust.

Then the lie came seeping through... Their growth is your responsibility. You haven't done your job. They still prefer to lay in the dirt than to climb to new heights and to pursue all that you've tried to unlock for them. 

Once I let this one lie through, my defenses were weakened and the barrage of lies tore through my thin veils of truth.

 It's been seven years. Seven years in this community, and your life and ministry have made no difference. Has anyone been welcomed into the Kingdom because of you? What makes you think anything you do matters? People are never worth investing in. They never turn out the way you hope. You'll never see returns for your work. Do something else with your life. This doesn't matter. You like to see growth? There has been none. Where is your harvest? You've invested in the wrong thing.

And I was about to believe it. I was doubting everything, from my calling to Hungary, to my calling as a teacher, to my strengths and talents, to the fact I had anything to offer at all.

On my way home I called a friend to rant. "I'm tired of always just planting. I'm tired of never harvesting and of never seeing growth. I'm tired of not knowing that anything I do matters. I'm just tired of investing in people. They're unpredictable. They don't grow like I'd hoped."

Her response was rich and full of Truth. "Zo. You're called to be a sower. You can't control what kind of soil your seed lands on. But you can be faithful in sowing."

Their growth is NOT your responsibility. Sow faithfully, water faithfully, but let the Lord do the growing.

I may have shed some angry tears. Because, if I'm honest, I want the glory and the recognition of bringing in a bountiful harvest.

But even if I never see that harvest, I can still plant faithfully. And what better place to plant than into eternity. Yes, people are unpredictable and don't always show consistent growth, but I know that I can plant eternal seeds in a temporal soil to reap an eternal harvest.

I may not always see the fruit in the moment (or ever), but I am learning to live more and more by this truth: "be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain." 1 Cor. 15:58.

Despite my doubts, the Lord is gracious. That barrage of lies was bombarded with truth this last week of school... students, parents, colleagues, friends, and family overwhelmed me with encouragement. You matter. You have been faithful. They are growing because of your faithfulness in planting. Thank you.

Confessions of a Missionary

I never felt called to be a missionary.

Sure, I knew that Christ-followers share the gospel with others.  I knew that the nature of a Christian is to be a missionary. But I always thought of missionaries as those "most-holy," "appointed-by-God" types that go to jungles and learn obscure languages, and forgo 21st century amenities.

I remember singing and clapping to "We are missionaries...going on a trip... to tell the world...all about Jesus!" in my preschool Sunday school class.

I remember my mom and other dear friends recounting stories about crazy ways God worked in the lives of African missionaries. I loved hearing the stories, but I didn't want anything to do with being a missionary. It was too hard. It was too radical.

As I grew older, however, I learned that sometimes instead of crossing oceans, being a missionary means rooting yourself deeply in the Word, in your community, and in the lives of those around you.  Sometimes being a missionary is standing firm for Christ even when everyone else runs away.  I learned that sometimes instead of learning remote languages, being a missionary means saying hard things and speaking up when everyone else is silent. And sometimes standing firm for Christ in a place where everyone knows you is the hardest task.

But regardless of location and language, being a missionary always means loving Jesus first, and letting that love overflow and spill into the lives of others, pointing them back to Him.

Confession: I continually fail at being a missionary.

I continually fail at loving Jesus.

I continually fail at loving people.

And I continually fail at pointing them back to Him.

In this transition from "regular teacher person in Indiana" to "Missionary Teacher in Hungary" I have often felt an added pressure to be holier. To be godlier. I believe the lie that only super godly people quit their jobs, live on support, and cross oceans to tell people about Jesus... And because my same old battles with pride and selfishness are still raging, there must be something wrong with me. I feel like a fraud and a faker. An impostor about to be found out.

They're going to find out how selfish I am!
They're going to hear my negative attitude!
They're going to see how pride continually gets the best of me!

And you probably will.

Because my gracious God chooses the weak and the sinners to carry out His purposes. He doesn't need me to do His work, but He chooses to bless me by giving me a part in His grand Story.

But I rejoice in this: His grace is sufficient for me and His power is made perfect in weakness. My weakness only glorifies Him more!

Vulnerability

"How are you doing?"

I always cringe when I hear this question. But typically I know how to answer it. If we're passing each other in the hallway, or in the line at Starbucks, or at the grocery store, I know the answer to this question.

"Good! How are you?" and we move on.

But at the beginning of a potentially two hour long coffee date after weeks of the "Good! How are you?"s, I'm always a bit at a loss.

I'm good. Really. But then as I start talking, I realize that there are things I've been stuffing under the "Good"s and the "Great"s... things that are expected to be stuffed when it's just a quick nod at the other person's existence.

But when there is time created for a true "how are you?" the stuff starts coming. It starts slowly at first. Perhaps a confession of exhaustion, of "this is hard," and then, slowly, yet somehow all at once, everything just pours out. It feels like the faucet pipes have been unclogged, and deep, ugly, hard truth comes pouring out.

It's interesting, but I never seem to choose vulnerability beforehand. I don't go into a meeting with someone saying, "today I'm going to be really vulnerable. I'm going to tell them how I'm really doing." Rather, it's a question that catches me offguard. And suddenly the faucet gurgles, and out comes all the goop that's been lodged in there for a bit too long.

It's a question like, "How have your quiet times with God been recently?" and then realizing there's been a build up of fear, resentment, distrust in our relationship, and that I've been avoiding Him.

Or, "What are you most worried about in moving to Hungary?" and the pit in my stomach growls: loneliness. ignorance. failure. misfit.

Or even the innocent questions of "How are you feeling about leaving? You must be so excited." and the joy and the sadness mix together, while I nod uncertainly, trying to figure out which I feel most powerfully at the moment, feeling guilty for not being excited enough... or that most often the sadness wins because I know what it is I'm leaving behind. But I also feel guilty when the excitement triumphs... because leaving my life, my ministry, my family, my friends, my world is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and yet, there is nothing more exciting than diving headfirst in obedience to what the Lord has called me to.

But without the questions, I am strangely numb. I am numb to the fact that my life is changing. It's like I'm watching everything happen to me, yet I feel nothing. I am thankful to have people in my life who ask the hard questions, and make time to listen... to help clear out the gunk in the faucet. Because I'm apparently incapable of clearing it out myself.

I'm thankful for the questions that prompt me when I am too exhausted to prompt myself. I'm thankful for people who take time to listen to me, and ask me about how I'm doing. Who ask the annoyingly hard questions, even when I bat them away and roll my eyes.

The people who don't look away, whose eyes find mine even after I've avoided the question, who wait for the answer to a hard question even when it seems like an impossibly long amount of time has passed.

The people who have given me space to be vulnerable. To process. Who have demanded vulnerability of me, not by force, but by giving my tired, numb, fickle heart a voice.

Thank you.

Lost

In my family, I was always the responsible one. I rarely left things, misplaced things, or lost things. And on the off chance that I did, it was rarely something very important. However, since moving away from home, I have discovered that I am much more apt to lose things than I ever was before.

Lately I've been losing all kinds of things. Important things. When this happens, I am in complete turmoil. Gnawing anxiety takes over and I feel myself shrinking in fear of the consequences of the lost item. But in this new season of losing things, I have also discovered something very interesting about myself:

I often do not look for the lost item because I am afraid I won't find it.

One time when I lost my ID badge, I was pacing around asking myself about its whereabouts, all the while refusing to scour my bedroom for it. I knew I should look for it. But I was overwhelmed with fear of what would happen if I did and it wasn't there.

It sounds absolutely ridiculous as I type it out now. It sounds pathetic and silly and foolish.

But I am discovering this personality flaw in myself... and it doesn't just have to do with lost things. Fear of failure continually paralyzes me from doing the next thing. I'm afraid that my efforts won't be enough. That even if I do my absolute best, it won't be good enough. That I will fail anyway. Perhaps it's easier to give 99%, and attribute failure to the 1% I didn't put forth.

It's true for missing things, and it's true in my relationship with the Lord.

In a dry spell, when my desire for His presence is lacking, I avoid doing the one thing I know will get me back on track. I avoid Him. I avoid Him for fear that if I do give Him my time, perhaps He won't show me new things, He won't encourage and strengthen me, and He won't speak to me. And the terror of His silence keeps me at bay.

This week I read Luke 15. All about lost things. And all about what (normal) people do when they lose something. They go out and look for it. The shepherd looks for the lost sheep. The woman searches for the lost coin. The Father watches for His prodigal son.

So often I am that sheep, that coin, that son... wandering away. But I am so thankful that the Father is not me. That the Father goes out and looks. He searches. He leaves the ninety-nine to find the one. He cleans the dust and filth to find the one. He celebrates with joy when He finds the one.

I know He will not let me stay lost, He will search for me and find me.

But I also know that sitting in my puddle of anxiety about lost things is foolish.
After an entire weekend of agonizing over where my ID badge was, I finally stood up, marched to my bedroom, moved a pile of clothes, and found it there on the floor, all along. How much anxiety and fear I could have avoided if I had simply done the next thing. If I had simply looked for it. It reminds me of the words to an old hymn I used to plunk out on the piano, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus:"

Oh what peace we often forfeit, oh what needless pain we bear. All because we do not carry, everything to God in prayer.

Though the Lord will pursue me and search for me, He also says, "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart" (Jer. 29:13).

It's time to quit worrying, quit fretting, and quit being afraid. It's time to lay aside my pride and my fear and come to Him. It's time to put in 100%, knowing that my God is able to do immeasurably more than I can ask or imagine.

I am never enough. But He is everything. 
 

Content with drawing

I rarely miss a day of school, but this past week I was sick and had to be out a few times. I had left detailed sub plans and piles of things to do. State testing is approaching and the missing work board is full. Graphs and charts, research, reading responses, and science notecards are on my to-do list.

But not theirs.

When I returned, I had an incredible amount of paper scraps all over the floor. Marker stains on desks. My entire stack of scrap paper, which usually sits at a happy 3 inches, depleted. I looked around, searching for signs of completed assignments. I found most children now had two or three name tags (all very meticulously designed) taped all over their desks. Apparently, my artistic fourth graders preferred to draw over doing the extensions and extra practice assignments I had left for them.

When I returned, we got right back to work. Pushing into close reads of text, searching for evidence to back up their reasoning, writing about their reading. They moaned and groaned. They doodled all over their notebooks. Some even refused to do the assignments, gnawing on the backs of pencil erasers until the rubber was soggy and useless.

So we had a chat. About expectations. About laziness. About taking the easy way out. About settling for less than our very best.

But it's hard! They whined. But I just want to finish my drawing!

I am not anti-art. I am not anti-drawing, anti-creativity, anti-imagination. But I am anti-laziness.

As I sat perched on my chair, reminding them of expectations to work hard, regardless of who is in the room, of pushing themselves to be the best they can be, and to soak up knowledge instead of resist, I began to feel a knot of conviction in my heart. As if somehow I was also giving myself a little lecture. But I'm a hard worker! I'm not just cutting and pasting and drawing! I'm responsible, I told myself, and hoped the knot would go away.

It didn't.

Several hours later, sitting with a dear friend, I began to unravel that knot of conviction. What was it about what I told my class that bothered me... that made me feel as if I had been lecturing myself?
And then slowly I pulled the loose string that began to untie the cords that have bound my heart.

I have been content with the easy things and resisted the hard things. I have started to view my job as just a job. I've let teachable moments slide.
Because I'm spread so thin and I have so much to pack in that slowing time down for a child who's falling behind is hard.
Because it's easier to get frustrated and angry than to slow down and ask "why?"
Because it's easier to call someone out from across the room than to come close and lay a hand on their shoulder.

Because it's easier to just go through the motions, go through the minutes, and let moments of eternal impact slip away. Because "I don't have time for that right now."

Because it's easier to let the day happen than to make it count.

Today I pushed them hard. We read, we underlined, we explained, we wrote, we proved, we quoted. We rewrote, we fixed, we checked our spelling. And then the boy who rarely writes more than a sentence wrote a whole page. This boy who rarely ever writes to a prompt because he's too busy doodling his own imaginary world wrote a page. A page detailing the author's purpose of using figurative language in a tall tale, complete with examples from the text of onomatopoeia, similes, metaphors, and idioms.

And instead of just nodding my head in approval, I recognized a teachable moment. Because I, too, am always learning.

I recognized a moment where hard work paid off. And so after slowing down my march around the classroom long enough to point out the excellent things I noticed in his writing, I slowed down time some more. He stood up and shared it with the class. He got two rounds of applause, and twenty one hands in the air eager to share what he did well. He looked as if his chest would burst with pride. Because what he had done had taken work. It had taken perseverance and thought. And he had a final product to show. I know he will remember that moment for a long time. Because it took a tremendous effort, and he yet he prevailed.

It takes work, real work, to teach a class of twenty-two kids for eight hours a day. It takes perseverance to keep pushing them to be excellent even when I am tired. When it would be easier to give them a stack of paper and just say "have at it; color all you like!"

And it takes real work to truly invest in them as people. To make a day count. To slow down to listen, to notice a tear, to ask "why," to let them invade my lunch time, and to take time -- to make time to celebrate their victories, and encourage them to be better. To push them when they're not working their hardest, to let up when they're at their breaking point. To know them and love them deeply, even when I'm tired. To be present.

The cords of my heart have been cut loose. The prayers I used to pray with my mom and my brother each day before heading off to school are echoing in my mind...

Help us build into Your Kingdom. Make today count for eternity.

A New Direction

As many of you know, my life will be drastically changing this next year.

This fall I will be moving to Hungary to teach at the International Christian School of Budapest.

The International Christian School of Budapest (ICSB) is a school dedicated to teaching children of missionaries, specifically, but also many international students and local Hungarians. I did my student teaching at ICSB in the spring of 2013, and I definitely left a large part of my heart there.

I am so excited to be going back! I am heading back as a full time missionary with Teach Beyond, a missions organization dedicated to placing teachers in schools around the world, and transforming lives through the power of education and the Gospel.

As you may have noticed, I have given this blog a makeover as I start on this new journey. I was originally planning on starting a new blog altogether, perhaps using a different site. But as I was thinking about it, I realized that I love the idea of keeping the same blog I've had for years. I love being able to peruse old posts, and see moments of learning, moments of growth even five years ago.

I've always had a hard time with accepting "younger" or more "foolish" versions of myself. I remember in high school, my brother and I would pull out old art work from elementary school and cackle at it until my mom would stow it protectively back in the attic. She always told us to accept who we were, and to celebrate who we had become.

This lesson is finally hitting home. Instead of hiding blog posts from my early blogging days, I love the cohesive story they tell.
They tell the story of an almost adult, eager to be used by the Lord, struggling, and slowly emerging out of the cocoon of college... rich in experiences of culture and language.
They tell the story of a wanderer, a Third Culture Kid, longingly searching for home.
They tell the story of a teacher, wrestling with the difficulties in students' lives, the burdens of teaching, yet the joy of learning.

I love seeing how the Lord has clearly been faithful in my life up until this point, knowing He will continue to be faithful in the future. I see the way He weaves my story, ultimately preparing me for this next step.

So I'm not creating a new blog. And I'm not deleting the old posts. I want to embrace the continuous story this blog tells.

I did, however, reconsider the title and description a bit...

A while back I wrote about why I didn't like the title of this blog. You can read that post here. When I first chose to title my blog after Psalm 46:10, I was thinking about the peace of God, and about the joy and comfort there is in His presence. But I also overlooked the second half of the verse that addressed the Lord's heart for the nations. "I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

My focus for this blog is going to be on the peace that comes from the Lord as I prepare to obediently exalt His name among the nations of students at ICSB!

I am so excited to revamp this blog and to have you continue to follow my journey!

In the Fog

There is something mysterious and unnerving about fog. As I was driving home through a thick blanket of gray, I squinted into the distance. Familiar landmarks were there, but I couldn't see them. It felt like I was completely alone, isolated in a cloud of mist. My comfort came from the fact that I was driving on a familiar road. I knew exactly where the stop signs were, where the road turned suddenly, and where there are frequent deer. Even though I couldn't see clearly, I knew the way, and I knew what I could trust.

As I passed the last stop sign before turning toward home, I squinted through the fog and was suddenly thankful. I was thankful for the fog. I reflected on the fact that sometimes it's good to just focus on what's directly in front of me... and not on the houses and cars, and people and trees and fields and all the other things that distract me as I drive. In the fog I turn off the radio, I zero in on the road. And I let my trust take me where I need to go. I trust the road is still beneath me, even though I can't see it. I trust the trees have not moved. I trust the road still turns at just the same places. And I trust the stop signs and intersections are still there. What makes it scary is that I cannot know about the other cars. The pedestrians. The people who venture out in the fog, and surprise me by their seemingly sudden presence.

I am realizing in this season, that there is joy in the fog. To be surrounded and enveloped by a blanket of unknowns, yet knowing that my Lord is still the same, and He does not change. He is the road firm beneath me; He is the one who illumines my way. He reveals what is ahead at just the right time. I can trust Him.

The fog helps me focus on what I know to be true, and to let go of the details that leave me distracted and apathetic to the important things.

Thanking the Lord today for His constant presence, even in the fog.

Presence

I am easily distracted. In fact, in one such easily distracted moment, I was perusing Facebook and came across an article that chronicled the unfortunate misstep of a distracted person. Literally. A young man was so distracted by his phone that he walked off a literal cliff to his death. At first I was amused, and then deeply saddened by yet another life thrown away because of distractions (not to mention countless other accidents at the hands of electronic devices). As I read the comments, I saw hundreds of people berating the individual, as well as a generation, as well as a culture, and an entire lifestyle. And I was nodding in agreement... until I realized I, too, am that person. I just don't frequent cliffsides.

I am distracted. I am distracted from the moment I wake up, to the moment I go to sleep. I am checking and rechecking, trying to stay current with the latest memes, or the latest music, or perhaps news events. I am watching yet another cat video, cute child, or foolish teenager. I am checking the past on timehop, food and travel on instagram, the social lives of my peers on facebook. Even as I wait in line at the grocery store, I'm checking and rechecking. I'm waiting for a friend. Checking. I'm in an awkward social situation. Rechecking. I'm sitting by myself at a fastfood restaurant on my way from here to there. Checking.

And it's not just my phone that distracts me. It's everything. It's the radio. It's a book. A movie, perhaps. Or Netflix. It's grading papers. It's how much I have to do. Or it's how much I don't want to do it.

But to simply be. To simply be present with people. To listen, to talk, to enjoy each other. To listen deeply, not just hear. To be fully present in the moment without the distractions of technology, or stuff, or anything else. That is a rarity.

The Christmas season is perhaps one of the richest seasons to be present... full of Christ, family, conversations, joy, and friendship. But it is also one of the most distracted. Food and preparation, shopping, toys, trinkets, and clothes. New technology, posting updates, staying in touch with people far away. Christ gets lost in the stuff, and family gets lost in the preparations.

The same is true for me as I think of my relationship with the Lord. Some days it seems I allow every other thing to come first. I find I push aside precious moments with Him for yet another Jimmy Fallon clip, an amusing Buzzfeed post, or a magazine. And at the end of the day, I turn off the light and whisper that I didn't have time and I'm too tired, yet scan Facebook for another twenty minutes until my eyelids droop shut to the glow of a blue screen.

As I stand gazing at an empty calendar for 2016, I want it to be different. It takes intentionality to break habits. So presence is my word for 2016.

Presence is two-fold.

Presence with people.
Presence with the Lord.

To Embrace His presence. To Engage with people, not technology.

What would it be like to ask one thing of the Lord: 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. ? (Ps. 27:4)

Really David? Of all the things to ask of the Lord... why that?

How many times do I focus on the Lord's presents, instead of His presence?
How many times do I forfeit moments of peace because I would rather spend my time with distractions, even good ones (see Mary and Martha: Luke 10:38-42).

From the dawn of time to the end of it, the Lord is obsessed with relationship. With presence.

He created man for relationship: between man and woman, mankind and God, and mankind and nature. With the first sin, relationships were marred. And yet, God entered into the world as a baby. To be present. Then to die in order to restore broken relationships between sinful humans and a holy God. To restore all creation, groaning under the weight of sin. To bring hope.

I know that just like there were moments I failed at being brave in 2015, there will be moments (let's face it... lots of them) in 2016 that I will fail at being present. But my delight is in the Lord, and that one day I will dwell in His presence without distractions:

"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be His people, and God himself will be with them as their God'" Rev. 21:3.