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.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Friday, December 16, 2016
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!
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!
Thursday, December 1, 2016
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)