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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Thursday, August 25, 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
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.
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.
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