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.