The Joy of Hope Realized

Recently I was flipping through my family's photo albums and found a picture that reminded me of sheer, childhood joy.

I was about ten years old, and it was Easter Sunday. We had just been to church to celebrate the resurrection, though I was a bit more excited about my Easter basket. We had discovered our Easter gift: a single four square ball. I was rather disappointed, especially as this meant I would have to share my gift with others. However, right when I was about to talk myself out of my despair, I found a card that explained a bit more.

The card explained the fact that this year, our Easter baskets would be found at the end of a scavenger hunt. As Viktor and I sat reading our cards, my mom snapped the picture:

When I look back at this picture, I see the thrill of what's to come. The joy of hope realized.

Fastforward sixteen years. A park bench on a cobblestoned walk shaded by trees set on fire by autumn's touch. A question, a "yes"/"igen" and a beginning of a new life together.

It's the same face, the same joy of hope realized. The thrill of what's to come.

When I moved to Hungary, I didn't come with expectations to find my spouse. I came to be a teacher at an international school, and reluctantly laid my hopes and dreams at the feet of Him who holds my future.

But He is so gentle. He is so good. As I transferred my hope to Him, He took the hope I had given Him, and slowly gave it back, piece by piece.

As He gave me hope, I kept trying to give it back to Him. Somehow I have this flawed idea that in order to be a true Christ-follower, I always have to say "no," even to something good. That I always have to push away the gifts He gives. That a God-pleasing life is a life of saying "no" to His graces. But in His gentle way, He showed me my faulty logic, reminding me of His ultimate gift of salvation.

I give good gifts. You bring me joy by accepting them. 

And so I sat on the park bench, at the end of a scavenger hunt, my heart overflowing with the joy of hope realized.

That my God knows my heart.
That He orchestrated the meeting of a Pakistan-born British-Kiwi and a Switzerland-born Hungarian-American in the city of my childhood summers.
And that our multicultural lives and ministries intertwine to bring Him glory.

The scavenger hunt is over, and I'm left with the joy of hope realized, but also a heart brimming with hopes to come!

Soli Deo Gloria!

A Game of Cricket

The question still lingered in the air,
"What promises of God are you struggling to believe right now?" As I glanced through the list of promises, they were familiar. They were promises I knew from the Sunday School Bible stories, from the sermons I listened to throughout highschool, and the passages I studied in college. I shrugged, a bit indifferent to the question.

When you've known something since you were little, it's easy to think you believe it. But when I looked at the list again, I realized one of my greatest spiritual struggles in the last year has been my Messiah complex. I think that everyone's salvation, well-being, and growth is up to me. My head knows it's not. But my heart is not always so sure.

This Messiah complex ultimately denies God's sovereignty, God's presence, and God's power. It's practically atheism. It's the belief that God is not present, He isn't doing his job, and therefore I have to pick up his slack.

My greatest doubts question the promise, "behold I am with you, even to the end of the age."

Even after focusing on God's presence for an entire year, this is still my greatest struggle.

I've been studying the attributes of God, and this same week I had been examining God's invisibility. As I studied the scriptures, I found an increasing frustration that God is invisible. While I have always had a deep faith, I love tactile, physical representations of things. Physical touch is one of my main love languages. So naturally, I struggle with God's invisibility. It's easy for me to turn into doubting Thomas, saying, "Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe."

That Sunday morning, I asked God to teach me more about Himself. To reveal more of Himself to me. To speak to my heart clearly.

I listened eagerly in church as I worshiped, I was attentive during the sermon, I read the Word. But there was nothing.

I was craving His presence, and yet I felt only His invisibility.

Frustrated, I went to bed early.

And then God sent the cricket. (God always seems to use bugs to teach me lessons...)

As I lay in bed, I wasn't sleepy. And then I heard it. The distant chirping. I assumed it was in the other room, so I closed my eyes and hoped it would stop.

The chirping got louder. I turned on my light and hunted for it, but it remained hidden and silent.

Annoyed, I turned off the light and climbed back into bed as the silence and darkness enveloped me. Just as I was falling asleep, I heard it again.

I turned on the light and crawled around on all fours looking under the bed, dresser, and wardrobe. The cricket was silent.

This game of Marco Polo continued for an hour and a half.

Exasperated, I informed God that I was not pleased with my cricket friend, my lack of sleep, or the fact that He hadn't showed up in my day even though I made time for Him and asked Him to come.

And then finally He broke the silence,  
 Did you ever doubt the presence of the cricket? 

And I realized the double standard I had... Even though the cricket was quiet when I searched for it, I never doubted its presence. I had hunted for it, even crawled around on all fours for it. I was determined to find it. Meanwhile, when God is quiet, the first thing I assume is that He's abandoned me. That He's no longer with me.

I whispered my confessions, and lay down to hear the cricket chirp yet again. This time it was very close. I shot up in bed, flicked on the light, and found it perching on my bedside table. After trapping it and taking it outside, I drifted to sleep with a deeper trust in God's promise of His presence.

²⁶ And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, ²⁷ that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us..."      -Acts 17:27 

Lessons from a Broken Copier

This week, a broken copier revealed some broken things in my life.

Bleary-eyed, I stared at my reflection in the elevator mirror. Monday face. For sure.

I unlocked the door to my classroom, and looked at the assortment of school supplies and papers from the last week on my desk and counter. Monday classroom. For sure.

I logged on my computer, and was hit with a wave of responsibilities, even though I had spent most of the weekend working. Monday. Monday. Monday.

I yawned and clicked print on the first assignment for my sixth graders.

A strange dialogue box popped up to inform me that the printer was not connected. Of course. It's Monday. 

I trekked down the hallway to glare suspiciously at the printer. It was definitely in a mood.

(and so was I)

I paraded into another teacher's room to declare the news of the broken printer, then traipsed downstairs to use the elementary copier.

All day was an adventure up and down the stairs, forgetting to email yet another document to myself in order to print.

On Wednesday, the elementary copier broke. "The world conspires against me!"  It was a joke. But in every joke there's at least an ounce of truth. And the truth here was that I needed to slow down... and the broken copier was the only way I was going to do that.

The broken copier forced me to pause. And while it was broken, I realized something:

It had become my slave-master.

It printed off my to-do lists, my articles to read, and convinced me that if I hadn't read the fifteen articles for the week, I was a bad teacher. Most weeks I'm drowning in a sea of information, skimming and collecting as much as I can before I turn around and teach it the next day. My desk disappears under papers and highlighters and textbooks. My creativity is hampered by the need for more knowledge. My impostor syndrome is strong... and the copier lies. It tells me the more articles I print and the more information I stuff in my brain, the better teacher I will be.

But the slave-master needed a new circuit board, so it was out of commission.

The lies of busyness continued. "I need to do this. I need to read this. I need to assign this." But then I stepped back and just enjoyed the teaching and the relationships: asking questions, listening to discussions, guiding students through preparing for a presentation.

And with less reading and less articles, I remembered something that had been buried deep inside of me: joy.

"In His presence there is fullness of joy."

I had believed the lie of the copier: That I had to always be doing more in order to feel confident and to feel more joy. And in all the reading and hustle and bustle, I became forgetful. How easily I bury my thankfulness in busyness. How easily I fill my time with "mandatory" reading, instead of reading the only life-giving text: His Word.

I also realized that so often my inner to-do list blocks me from relationships.
It blocks me from my relationship with the Lord: I must grade these papers. I don't have time for half an hour quiet time.
It blocks me from relationship with my Nagyi: I must grade these papers. I don't have time to tell you about my day and hear about yours. I don't have time to play cards with you or help you replace the lightbulbs.
It blocks me from relationship with my friends: I must grade these papers. I don't have time to go out for lunch after church.

But the week the copier broke, the people who see my hustle and bustle began pointing out that I'm trying to find worth in what I do. That I'm trying to find worth in sticky-notes full of checkmarks, in projects handed back immediately, and in perfect knowledge of the entire world's history.

You will never find fulfillment here. My jobs will never be finished. I'm a teacher, and a teacher's work is never done. And there's a point I need to put it down and leave it alone.

Because if I'm not spending time with the One who gives me worth, I will never truly find it. I often think the most fruitful thing I can do is to deliver the world's best lessons, and to be the world's best teacher.

But in all reality, as I read this week, "the most fruitful thing I can do today is to connect with the heart of Jesus."

My Yoke

This past week I celebrated six months of living in Hungary.

I am shocked at how quickly the time has gone. I remember that first night, pulling the blankets around my face, overcome by the smell of my childhood, tears leaking down my face as I realized the seemingly irreversible decision to move here.

I think back to those early days of public transportation, the first Saturday in the city, and the terror of having to speak Hungarian.

I think about meeting my students on Open House night: the expectancy and the first impressions, the way they looked at me and tried to figure out who I am.

I think about our staff retreat and getting to know my coworkers and friends. I think about our student retreat, and the way those relationships began to develop.

I think about joining the gospel choir, and how my Tuesday nights were saturated with singing, praising, languages, and joy.

I think about Saturday adventuring in the city, sunsets over the Danube, and reading The Chronicles of Narnia to Nagyi.

I think about Christmas with my family, time away from the constant lesson planning of school, and the time to breathe.

These months have been so rich, and the Lord has been drawing me ever closer to Him. In many ways this has looked like exposing insecurities and pride in my life (as moving to another country and culture will often do).

I have also realized how fear constantly ties me down from taking risks, from trying new things, from meeting new people, from speaking Hungarian. The Lord has been ever so gentle revealing these things to me through His precious people.

And then I came across this quote from Elisabeth Elliott:
"Fear arises when we think everything depends on us."

This has ultimately been the root of so much of my fear and worry. It's the fear of committing cultural blunders, it's the fear of misspeaking or sounding stupid. It's the fear of being inadequate and of failing to bring others closer to Jesus, because my Messiah Complex is still an underlying issue of mine.

But then Matthew 11:28-30 tells me something different: "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

I've spent many times in the last few months informing God, that His yoke is not easy and His burden is not light.

His response, once again, ever so gentle: My child, you're the one adding unnecessary burdens, unnecessary weight. Learn from Me. Learn from My example. 

So I began to ask Him to take off the yoke I've burdened myself with, and to yoke me to Himself. That I would keep in step with His Spirit.

What yoke would you have me take up? What burden would you have me carry?

As I sat in silence, contemplating this, I thought of Jesus. I thought of the way He sought the Father's presence even amidst exhausting ministry. While He spent His days laboring among people who continually misunderstood Him at best, and rejected Him at worst, He didn't burn out. He found rest in the Father's presence.

My presence. 

I must make His presence a priority. Regardless of how "busy" I feel, I must take time to retreat into His presence.

Trust Me. 

Jesus trusted the Father completely. He laid down His will, taking up the Father's. I want to follow Christ's example in laying down my will, my plans, and my dreams.

Trust My timing.

There were countless times when Jesus avoided situations, or went directly into situations because of the Father's timing. He trusted the Father's timing, and didn't force things to happen outside of His timing.

When I look at this yoke and this burden, there is a definite weight lifted. Because I'm removed from the equation. It's no longer about me, what I can contribute, and what I can do. It's all about pushing my questions onto Him, and allowing Him to deal with them in His timing.  He's big enough to handle my doubts, fears, and questions. And the more time I spend in His presence, the deeper my trust grows.

Laying Down Pride

My first month of acknowledging the Lord as "Guide" in my life has been a not-so-fun one.
Because to acknowledge Him as Guide means I have to acknowledge that I'm lost. That I need Him. That I don't know the way.

I hate feeling lost. The panic, the inadequacy, and the uncertainty are things I could definitely do without.

But it seems in order to be guided by Him, I need to give up my own ways first. And really, this shouldn't be any kind of new thought. It's all over scripture. I just failed to realize how far-reaching and deeply rooted my own pride is.

"He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble His way" (Psalm 25:9). How can He possibly lead me in His way when I'm still determined to go my own?

I remember telling my class of sixth graders in devotions about this verse, and praying for humility. And then the waves of failure crashed against me and I began moping that life's not fair. I was getting annoyed at God for not answering my prayer requests.

Later that week, we circled back to this passage, and there it was, so obvious: of course if I'm going to pray for humility, God will answer. And it will hurt, because nobody likes having their pride broken. Nobody likes feeling like a failure.

I have this Messiah complex. I always have. In fact, my favorite daydream as a first grader was that I was the playground "watchdog" and that when I was on duty, all the children behaved. Seriously. (I must have been so fun to be around...)

I somehow think I have all the answers. That every student will respond well to me. That I am this amazing, can't-get-any-better kind of educator, that I will "make" a kid's life, that I have the power to change circumstances outside of my control, that I'm some kind of miracle worker.

I so wish. But this is also just a grown-up form of my first grade daydream.

The thing is, by nurturing this Messiah complex (aptly named), I am trying to take the place of Christ. I am forever thinking that it is my duty to draw people closer to Him (which is a very easy lie to believe as a missionary). It is my duty to plant seeds, but I can never cause dead seeds to germinate. It is my duty to water, but I can never cause dry ground to produce a bountiful harvest of healthy fruit.

I keep trying to take the place of Jesus in my students' lives. And when I suddenly discover that I can't, I'm bitter, grumpy, and annoyed at God.

As I was licking the wounds of yet another failure, I decided to hang out in one of the most encouraging passages, 2 Corinthians 12:9-10, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness..." These words were salve to my wounds. Until I decided to read the context (that I so often ignore). In the early part of chapter 12, Paul is talking about the thorn in his flesh that he has begged God to remove. But God's response is no. Instead, he leaves the thorn in Paul's flesh so that he may learn humility. And so verse 9 actually begins, "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." It is through this thorn that Paul discovers true weakness, and learns of God's power that is perfected when paired with our weakness.

God showed me that there are certain circumstances He will not take away from me, because He wants me to rely on Him. To lean into Him. Because let's be honest, if this improved, I would only pat myself on the back and tell my Guide to beat it because I know the way from here.

I am learning that I do not know the way. I cannot go one step without my Guide. He is everything.

And so my prayer becomes "Jesus, be in me all that I can't be."

 

2017: Guide

So this post is 10 days late, but the past few years I've been thinking about a "word of the year" as I contemplate the new year before me.

2015 was the year of Brave... which is when I first began contemplating my move to Hungary and when I first started applying to TeachBeyond, ICSB, and beginning my support raising.

2016 was the year of Presence... when I focused on spending more time in the Lord's presence, and engaging more with people and less with technology. I also thought about how to live in the present as I wrapped up my 4th grade teaching job and transitioned my life to Hungary.

And 2017?

Guide.

Several years ago, my mom took me to an exhibit called the Láthatatlan Kiállítás (Invisible Exhibit). In this "interactive journey," you are led through a series of pitch black rooms set up as various scenes of every day life: a street scene, a home, a workplace. In each room you must rely only on your other four senses and the visually impaired guide that talks you through each scene.

I have always been afraid of the dark, and the idea of walking through mysterious rooms of unknown perils in the blackness was not my idea of fun. I remember how eagerly I listened to the voice of our guide as I clung to the wall and random objects in my path. I had to trust the voice I could only hear, but not see.

I had all but forgotten about this experience, until I saw some posters in the metro for this exhibit. As I have been spending time memorizing scripture (Psalm 25) and studying attributes of God, I was reminded of those moments of fear and uncertainty in the darkness, and this idea of God being my guide resurfaced.

It was also around this time that I was beginning to think about next year. It's times of transition that I cling to God as "guide," but times when I think I have things under control that I let go of Him and go off on my own. I forget to trust Him because I don't feel like I need to. And that's a dangerous place to be.

As I think about the year 2017, there isn't a specific or obvious decision I'm facing that would mandate "GUIDE" as the word of the year. I'm not reconsidering my job, or moving across the world, or any other wild transitions. It was for this reason that I was ready to chuck the word "guide" aside and begin the search for another more "relevant" word.

But the more I memorized of Psalm 25, and the more I thought about the concept of "guide," it impressed itself ever deeper in my heart.

Make me to know your paths, Oh Lord, teach me your ways. Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long.

If I'm waiting for the Lord all the day long, then it doesn't matter if I feel like I need Him or not. I go to Him because I need to be with Him. (Thank you 2016 and Presence).

Later I was reading in Exodus about the Israelites being led by the pillar of fire and the pillar of smoke (Num. 5:17-23). I was reminded of the gift of Presence that the Israelites had. The Lord was in their midst. They knew where/when to go because He was with them.

Must be nice to have God's leading be so clear, were my discontent thoughts, Of course I could be obedient and follow Him if all I had to do was use my eyes and see that He wanted me to move, or see that He wanted me to stay.

But the truth came later: To be led by Him I must be in His presence. I must take time to be still and wait for Him all the day long.

It was New Year's Eve and my family was braving the cold as we traipsed through the festive streets of Budapest to the tune of loud noisemakers and people singing "Auld Lang Syne." We slid into the sea-foam green seats of our movie theater-turned church, and the worship band began to play.

And the words of this Hungarian worship song cut my discontent, Israelite-heart to the core:

Csontjaimba zárt olthatalan láng jelenléted,
Forró mint a tűz, erős mint a sír a szerelmed.

Locked in my bones is the unquenchable flame of your presence
Hot like fire, strong like the grave is your love.

The Israelites had the flame and the cloud go before them.
But I have the Spirit living inside me. The unquenchable flame of His presence is INSIDE me. The Guide lives inside me. 

John 16:13: "When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come."

And so my question of the year is: What would it look like if I started each day acknowledging the Holy Spirit, the Guide who lives inside me, seeking His will and guidance for my day?

I pray that I would seek His presence daily so that I may know His guidance, and bravely follow wherever He may lead.