Our new school director stood bravely in front of a room of teachers and staff at our international school. It was August, and each of us had gone through the roller coaster of change. Many of our dearest friends were now across the Atlantic. The people who had been like family, the people we traveled with, celebrated holidays with, and worked side by side with each day were now an ocean away, still sleeping while we downed our second cup of coffee for the day.
Including our seasoned and trusted director.
She surveyed our faces... the new and the old. She must have noticed that our usual "seating chart" was rearranged to accommodate for those who were no longer with us, and the newcomers who filled in.
She sighed a bit uncertainly, then squared her shoulders back, and began a message of hope. She spoke of continuity and change. She assured us that even though change had come, we could expect that our school would cling to the same guiding principles as when it was established.
Continuity and Change.
Neither is good without the other. Continuity for the sake of continuity leads to an unbending staleness, eventually leading to irrelevance.
Change without continuity leads to chaos, uncertainty, and because of its lack of connection, irrelevance.
I was eight months into my year of Renew, before I realized how much those two words have defined this year.
Re(continuity) new(change).
My year was layered with change.
Marriage
Moving out from my grandma's house after two years of living together
Remodeling an apartment
One of my best friends moving to Romania
Becoming an aunt
A new school director and new teachers
One of my best friends moving back to the States
Starting my translation ministry at church
And yet, the layers of change were laid on top of a foundation of continuity.
Same family
Same country
Same job
Same role in my job
More importantly:
Same faith
Same Scriptures
Same God
And so, in the midst of the changes, my feet stood firm.
My heart, however, underwent some reconstruction.
Remodeling(renewing) our apartment was an exciting yet excruciatingly frustrating process, yet it taught me so much.
1. Renewal doesn't happen within the confines of deadlines.
We had our timing all worked out. We knew exactly when we needed to have everything ready. But we didn't meet our deadline.
I think about my yearly resolutions. My list of things I'd love to be better about... and yet at the end of each year when it comes time to give account, I find that I haven't met the deadline. Sure, I may be farther along than when I set out, but I have yet to achieve my goal of memorizing all of Psalm 119 (got to verse 112!), plan and make healthy meals for each day (does twice a week count?), to exercise (I planked a total of 170-some minutes this year. Don't ask about cardio). The renewal process is slower than you'd hope. But it happens bit by bit.
2. Things may appear to be fine, but you don't really know until you've stripped away everything else. True renewal has to dig deep.
We had everything almost ready. The kitchen was completed, our appliances were working. We were moved in. But there was a suspicious vibrating/buzzing coming from the side of our stove. Upon further inspection, we discovered that none of our kitchen outlets were grounded. After our walls were freshly painted, we had to have an electrician come and rewire and ground a bunch of our wires.
I'm pretty good at acting holy. I'm pretty good at acting sanctified. But occasionally there's a suspicious nastiness in my tone of voice, an unexplained outburst of rage, a negative attitude and critical spirit that reveals a tangle of unsurrendered, unconfessed sin. Renewal means confronting these and dealing with them as they come.
3. It's ongoing. There's always more to do, and it requires constant upkeep. But that shouldn't keep me from moving forward.
After just six months of living in our new apartment, there are countless things that need to be fixed. Water damage from that time our boiler decided to spout water all over our newly finished apartment.
Water damage from that time our windows failed to keep out the rain from the sideways rainstorm.
Cracks along our bedroom wall
Nicked edges needing some new paint from when we hauled large furniture through small openings
Cracked grout between our beautiful new tiles
I often walk through the apartment stressing about all the things that need to be fixed, or that are no longer perfect (or never were). Sometimes my distress about water damage or peeling paint keeps me from wanting to do the normal upkeep like cleaning. Instead of focusing on progress, I begin focusing on perfection, and that becomes crippling. But if I waited until everything was perfect, we never would have moved in. And that's just being a poor steward of the incredible gift and blessing of this home.
If I wait until I feel like I have actually accomplished all of my resolutions before I invest in others, I am squandering my resources, my opportunities, and my relationships.
A quick teaser for 2019: I'm choosing to INVEST.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Reluctant Levite
This week Chris and I met with the leadership of our mission to talk about the logistics of our multicultural lives as they relate to all the "adulting" things I dread the most: taxes, retirement, citizenship, Brexit, passports, property, decisions decisions decisions.
I left the meeting feeling overwhelmed with how complicated our lives are, and how much red tape lies in front of us for the rest of our lives. As we went back upstairs to the world of "maths" and physics, the thought tumbled in my mind, then rolled off my tongue.
Why can't I just be normal? Why do we have to be so weird? Why do I always have to be the trailblazer, the "unique situation" the "exception?"
This morning I was reading in Joshua about the inheritances of the people (Josh. 14-19). Everyone got their chunk of the Promised Land. Except the Levites. They didn't get land.
But to the tribe of Levi Moses gave no inheritance; the Lord God of Israel is their inheritance, just as he said to them.
What an incredible statement. One verse in chapters of land boundaries and names of tribes and clans.
And that verse made me weep.
I can't help but picture the Levites eagerly waiting for their lot. Their chunk of land. The pieces of land are divided up, and they get one sentence: oh, your inheritance is the Lord.
I picture them in this confused state... what does that mean? How can we inherit the Lord? That sounds complicated, and terrifying. After all, this Lord is the Lord that holds back the rivers and the sea, the one who pulled down the walls of Jericho, that caused the sun to STOP in its travel across the sky, the one who hurled down hailstones at the enemy. The Lord who strikes dead those who disobey Him, the Lord who sends plagues of blood and frogs and gnats and darkness and death.
I picture them a bit disappointed. Why do we have to be the exception? Can't we also just have land?
And I see the same thing in my own heart.
Why can't one place be home? Marriage has only doubled the multicultural confusion. Who are we? Can't we just have one country, one passport, one set of tax rules?
And I am a reluctant Levite.
But to reject being a Levite is to reject THE LORD as my inheritance.
My portion is Him. Instead of an earthly home, I get an eternal Home. My lot? Him.
Before I moved to Hungary, I memorized Psalm 16. This verse was always my favorite: The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.
Long before I knew anything about God's plan for me here, He was preparing my heart... to choose Him as my portion, instead of reluctantly accepting it, or tolerating it. To recognize that instead of land and home, HE holds my lot. And the boundaries of my land? They fall in pleasant places. He has given me a beautiful inheritance.
To accept being a Levite is to accept being a wanderer.
But God is gracious. He gives the Levites cities. Cities and pasturelands out of the inheritance of the other tribes:
"The cities of the Levites in the midst of the possession of the people of Israel were in all forty-eight cities with their pasturelands." (Josh. 21:41)
God knew the Levites still needed home bases; they just weren't tied down to any one place.
In fact, in Deuteronomy it talks about giving the Levites freedom to serve the Lord and do ministry in any of these cities (Deut. 18). Other people lived and worked in their allotted land, but the Levites could travel and serve wherever there was need.
So in being a Levite, God has thrown open the doors of ministry.
He has cut the bonds of serfdom, those ties to the land, to country.
He has set us free to serve Him throughout all the world, to embrace Him as our only inheritance.
My heart waffles between being a reluctant Levite, and a dancing Levite... the heart of fear and resentment and the heart of celebration.
Today I choose to dance, even through the homesickness and the confusion.
I choose to dance in step with the Spirit, following His lead and knowing that the pillar of fire that led those same Levites now lives in me, to lead and guide me according to His will.
I left the meeting feeling overwhelmed with how complicated our lives are, and how much red tape lies in front of us for the rest of our lives. As we went back upstairs to the world of "maths" and physics, the thought tumbled in my mind, then rolled off my tongue.
Why can't I just be normal? Why do we have to be so weird? Why do I always have to be the trailblazer, the "unique situation" the "exception?"
This morning I was reading in Joshua about the inheritances of the people (Josh. 14-19). Everyone got their chunk of the Promised Land. Except the Levites. They didn't get land.
But to the tribe of Levi Moses gave no inheritance; the Lord God of Israel is their inheritance, just as he said to them.
What an incredible statement. One verse in chapters of land boundaries and names of tribes and clans.
And that verse made me weep.
I can't help but picture the Levites eagerly waiting for their lot. Their chunk of land. The pieces of land are divided up, and they get one sentence: oh, your inheritance is the Lord.
I picture them in this confused state... what does that mean? How can we inherit the Lord? That sounds complicated, and terrifying. After all, this Lord is the Lord that holds back the rivers and the sea, the one who pulled down the walls of Jericho, that caused the sun to STOP in its travel across the sky, the one who hurled down hailstones at the enemy. The Lord who strikes dead those who disobey Him, the Lord who sends plagues of blood and frogs and gnats and darkness and death.
I picture them a bit disappointed. Why do we have to be the exception? Can't we also just have land?
And I see the same thing in my own heart.
Why can't one place be home? Marriage has only doubled the multicultural confusion. Who are we? Can't we just have one country, one passport, one set of tax rules?
And I am a reluctant Levite.
But to reject being a Levite is to reject THE LORD as my inheritance.
My portion is Him. Instead of an earthly home, I get an eternal Home. My lot? Him.
Before I moved to Hungary, I memorized Psalm 16. This verse was always my favorite: The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.
Long before I knew anything about God's plan for me here, He was preparing my heart... to choose Him as my portion, instead of reluctantly accepting it, or tolerating it. To recognize that instead of land and home, HE holds my lot. And the boundaries of my land? They fall in pleasant places. He has given me a beautiful inheritance.
To accept being a Levite is to accept being a wanderer.
But God is gracious. He gives the Levites cities. Cities and pasturelands out of the inheritance of the other tribes:
"The cities of the Levites in the midst of the possession of the people of Israel were in all forty-eight cities with their pasturelands." (Josh. 21:41)
God knew the Levites still needed home bases; they just weren't tied down to any one place.
In fact, in Deuteronomy it talks about giving the Levites freedom to serve the Lord and do ministry in any of these cities (Deut. 18). Other people lived and worked in their allotted land, but the Levites could travel and serve wherever there was need.
So in being a Levite, God has thrown open the doors of ministry.
He has cut the bonds of serfdom, those ties to the land, to country.
He has set us free to serve Him throughout all the world, to embrace Him as our only inheritance.
My heart waffles between being a reluctant Levite, and a dancing Levite... the heart of fear and resentment and the heart of celebration.
Today I choose to dance, even through the homesickness and the confusion.
I choose to dance in step with the Spirit, following His lead and knowing that the pillar of fire that led those same Levites now lives in me, to lead and guide me according to His will.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Guilt, Trust, and Sabbath
Her voice is like an endless dripping on a rainy day.
She corners me with her never-ending to-do lists.
Her disapproving look hovers over my every day.
Guilt has become my constant companion, continually showing me my failures even as I work to accomplish all that is required of me.
I try to keep her quiet, but there is always just one more thing left unfinished, one more squandered minute, one more relationship marred by my impatience or frustration. Her whispers remind me that I've failed yet again.
Her ultimate goal is to cause me to take my eyes off the One in whom I find my worth, and to place my hope and trust in myself: in my accomplishments, relationships, and the checkmarks next to completed tasks in my planner.
And most days it seems to be working. Cue more guilt.
But then a quiet moment with Jesus, open windows on a gorgeous day, gentle music summoning my soul to rest. A delicious, well-written book (The Rest of God) from a friend who knows my tendency to resist Sabbath.
An image of a strong, unshakeable tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream: it does not fear when heat comes for its leaves remain green, it is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit. This is the image of one who trusts in the Lord and whose trust is the Lord (Jer. 17:7-8).
My recurring temptation is to trust myself. To trust who I am, who I've been, and what I am capable of. But without placing my trust in God, I will be sapped of strength. I will wither, and my hope, peace, and joy will give way to fear, anxiety, and disappointment.
I have been so task-oriented that I have failed to rest. I have failed to Sabbath. I have convinced myself of not having time to rest. It seems illogical to take the limited time I have and to use it to Sabbath: to do non-wedding, non-apartment, non-school related things.
And yet in failing to Sabbath, I have uprooted myself. I have allowed fear to poison me and turn my leaves brown with anxiety and worry. Though drought hits, I don't drink deeply from the River of Life, that is abundant to all who thirst. Instead, I have forsaken the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for myself: broken cisterns that can hold no water (Jer. 2:13) and that can never satisfy.
But today I'm choosing to trust. And choosing to trust means to choose Sabbath.
To trust that Creator God can keep my world spinning while I take time to connect with Him. To do the most fruitful thing I can for the day, and connect with the heart of Jesus.
To choose Sabbath is to choose freedom.
Freedom from the taskmasters.
Freedom from Guilt.
May the God of hope fill you with all JOY and PEACE as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. -Romans 15:13.
She corners me with her never-ending to-do lists.
Her disapproving look hovers over my every day.
Guilt has become my constant companion, continually showing me my failures even as I work to accomplish all that is required of me.
I try to keep her quiet, but there is always just one more thing left unfinished, one more squandered minute, one more relationship marred by my impatience or frustration. Her whispers remind me that I've failed yet again.
Her ultimate goal is to cause me to take my eyes off the One in whom I find my worth, and to place my hope and trust in myself: in my accomplishments, relationships, and the checkmarks next to completed tasks in my planner.
And most days it seems to be working. Cue more guilt.
But then a quiet moment with Jesus, open windows on a gorgeous day, gentle music summoning my soul to rest. A delicious, well-written book (The Rest of God) from a friend who knows my tendency to resist Sabbath.
An image of a strong, unshakeable tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream: it does not fear when heat comes for its leaves remain green, it is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit. This is the image of one who trusts in the Lord and whose trust is the Lord (Jer. 17:7-8).
My recurring temptation is to trust myself. To trust who I am, who I've been, and what I am capable of. But without placing my trust in God, I will be sapped of strength. I will wither, and my hope, peace, and joy will give way to fear, anxiety, and disappointment.
I have been so task-oriented that I have failed to rest. I have failed to Sabbath. I have convinced myself of not having time to rest. It seems illogical to take the limited time I have and to use it to Sabbath: to do non-wedding, non-apartment, non-school related things.
And yet in failing to Sabbath, I have uprooted myself. I have allowed fear to poison me and turn my leaves brown with anxiety and worry. Though drought hits, I don't drink deeply from the River of Life, that is abundant to all who thirst. Instead, I have forsaken the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for myself: broken cisterns that can hold no water (Jer. 2:13) and that can never satisfy.
But today I'm choosing to trust. And choosing to trust means to choose Sabbath.
To trust that Creator God can keep my world spinning while I take time to connect with Him. To do the most fruitful thing I can for the day, and connect with the heart of Jesus.
To choose Sabbath is to choose freedom.
Freedom from the taskmasters.
Freedom from Guilt.
May the God of hope fill you with all JOY and PEACE as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. -Romans 15:13.
Sunday, January 14, 2018
Renew
Today when my alarm went off, there was a whitish gray glow to my room. The sky looked like a bland off-white, and I sighed at another sunless winter day. However, I heard a familiar, dear sound which made me rush to the window. Across the street was a man scraping his car from snow, and all around me was a world of white.
The longer I spend away from the Midwest, the more I treasure each snowfall. I squealed with delight. Even though it was Sunday and no chance that this snow would have any bearing on school cancellations, it was one of the most joyful moments of my year thus far.
As I walked down the hill toward the city, I was filled with the wonder of the purity of the morning. The way snow purifies the gray, drab of the city. The light snowflakes made my hair sparkle and glisten as they melted. It lay thick on the branches whispering my word of the year:
renew.
Renew seems like an oxymoron. How can something that is not new be made new again?
But it's the idea of restoring, replenishing, reviving, re-establishing, resuming, recovering.
To begin again. The essence of the Gospel.
And just like my footprints left new tracks in the freshly fallen snow, renew in 2018 means going back to the old habits I had established before my busyness, before my chaos, before I lost my balance.
Renew starts with the transformation of my mind through scripture:"...be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." I have lots of little moments of down time. Time I'm always filling with checking my newsfeeds, or browsing my favorite pictures. I'm trying to fill this down time with eternal time. With storing away verses for later. For taking the tiny seeds of a day and sowing them into eternity.
Renew means making Sabbath rest a priority. It means sanctifying time to find peace in the Lord's presence, and in the presence of those who draw me closer to Him. I know these next few months are going to be some of the busiest, and if I don't take time to renew, I will burn out.
I also know there's going to be a lot of New that this year brings. And it's exciting, like a fresh snowfall and the unmarred whiteness of a forest trail. But I love the idea that in the middle of my New, there is nothing new for the Lord. I want to acknowledge the consistency and immutability of my Lord. For Him it's renew.
Renew means to look forward to Heaven. To do things with an eternal mindset, recognizing that "our outer self is wasting away, but our inner self is being renewed day by day." I don't want to set my heart and mind on earthly things. I want to focus on eternity.
And so today, I was so thankful for a palpable reminder of renew. Of the old being clothed in white, full of hope, purity and beauty.
The longer I spend away from the Midwest, the more I treasure each snowfall. I squealed with delight. Even though it was Sunday and no chance that this snow would have any bearing on school cancellations, it was one of the most joyful moments of my year thus far.
As I walked down the hill toward the city, I was filled with the wonder of the purity of the morning. The way snow purifies the gray, drab of the city. The light snowflakes made my hair sparkle and glisten as they melted. It lay thick on the branches whispering my word of the year:
renew.
Renew seems like an oxymoron. How can something that is not new be made new again?
But it's the idea of restoring, replenishing, reviving, re-establishing, resuming, recovering.
To begin again. The essence of the Gospel.
And just like my footprints left new tracks in the freshly fallen snow, renew in 2018 means going back to the old habits I had established before my busyness, before my chaos, before I lost my balance.
Renew starts with the transformation of my mind through scripture:"...be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." I have lots of little moments of down time. Time I'm always filling with checking my newsfeeds, or browsing my favorite pictures. I'm trying to fill this down time with eternal time. With storing away verses for later. For taking the tiny seeds of a day and sowing them into eternity.
Renew means making Sabbath rest a priority. It means sanctifying time to find peace in the Lord's presence, and in the presence of those who draw me closer to Him. I know these next few months are going to be some of the busiest, and if I don't take time to renew, I will burn out.
I also know there's going to be a lot of New that this year brings. And it's exciting, like a fresh snowfall and the unmarred whiteness of a forest trail. But I love the idea that in the middle of my New, there is nothing new for the Lord. I want to acknowledge the consistency and immutability of my Lord. For Him it's renew.
Renew means to look forward to Heaven. To do things with an eternal mindset, recognizing that "our outer self is wasting away, but our inner self is being renewed day by day." I don't want to set my heart and mind on earthly things. I want to focus on eternity.
And so today, I was so thankful for a palpable reminder of renew. Of the old being clothed in white, full of hope, purity and beauty.
Monday, January 1, 2018
My Lighthouse, My Guide
If you've been following this blog for any amount of time, you know that even if I don't blog much during the year, I always have lots to think about and write about around the new year.
For the past three years I've been intentionally choosing a word for each year. I love looking back on these years marked by a theme or a word.
2015: Brave
2016: Presence
2017: Guide
I am always humbled by the way that word becomes so relevant in that year. How it goes from being a self-selected word to a truly deep, spiritual stamp on my year.
And Guide was just the same. Last January when I chose the word, I actually wrote the following:
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.
I laugh quietly to myself at this rather arrogant declaration -- the way I thought I knew how my year would go. In 2017 my relationship with Chris went from being a developing dating relationship, to a committed engagement. And for us, that required us to continually lean in to our Guide to lead us on this delicate path.
Focusing on God as Guide this year required giving Him time, Him presence to be still and listen to Him. To seek Him out, even in moments when I thought I already knew what I wanted. And I definitely failed a lot. Even though my longing was to wake up each day with the expectancy of asking the Guide to show me His way for my day, that didn't happen. Not even close. But instead of dwelling on failures, I choose to see all the ways He led despite my shortcomings.
Beyond my transition of getting engaged, this year also saw the marriage of one of my best friends to one of my Hungarian family members and her move to Hungary, and my own brother's marriage just a week later.
As we roadtripped across the country for these wedding festivities, we encountered several lighthouses. These pillars of hope and guidance have become a symbol for me in my faith, especially after wrestling through a season of doubt right before moving to Hungary. I loved seeing these lighthouses once again, as Rend Collective's "My Lighthouse" played in my mind.
While I was in Scotland this summer with Chris's family, one of our favorite activities was to watch the boats come in and out from the harbor.
The beauty of the harbor and the sea was absolutely mesmerizing. But one morning there appeared to be more commotion than usual at the harbor. One of the young sailors had made a mistake and ended up with his sailboat overturned in the sea, sinking as the water poured in. I'm not sure what happened, but I overheard several of the more experienced sailors talking about the foolishness of the sailor who had made an "elementary" error, and therefore lost his boat. The way they talked, it sounded as though they had tried to talk him out of setting out but he hadn't heeded their advice.
This left a great impression on me, and made me stop and think about times when I chose to ignore the Lord's guidance, even if only for my own pride: thinking I know better than He does.
And yet, the Lord has continued to be so abundantly gracious to me, not allowing me to capsize, but rather waiting for me to come to my senses, to come back to Him, and to seek His face.
Psalm 25, my guidance Psalm floats before me: He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way (verse 9). In order to be led, I must be humble. I must acknowledge that I don't know the way.
It was in those moments of humbling myself before Him that He led. More beautifully than I ever could have imagined. In the moments when I was still and waited for Him, He showed up.
And at the end of 2017, gazing back down the now brightly lit path that once stood shrouded before me, I see all the ways He led. The ways He hemmed me in, behind and before. Though for each of the places I recognize His hand, there are thousands that I may never know.
2017 has been a blessed year because my Lord has been my Shepherd. He has led me beside quiet waters and comforted me with his rod and staff. He has laid a feast before me. Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me into 2018, and beyond.
For the past three years I've been intentionally choosing a word for each year. I love looking back on these years marked by a theme or a word.
2015: Brave
2016: Presence
2017: Guide
I am always humbled by the way that word becomes so relevant in that year. How it goes from being a self-selected word to a truly deep, spiritual stamp on my year.
And Guide was just the same. Last January when I chose the word, I actually wrote the following:
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.
I laugh quietly to myself at this rather arrogant declaration -- the way I thought I knew how my year would go. In 2017 my relationship with Chris went from being a developing dating relationship, to a committed engagement. And for us, that required us to continually lean in to our Guide to lead us on this delicate path.
Focusing on God as Guide this year required giving Him time, Him presence to be still and listen to Him. To seek Him out, even in moments when I thought I already knew what I wanted. And I definitely failed a lot. Even though my longing was to wake up each day with the expectancy of asking the Guide to show me His way for my day, that didn't happen. Not even close. But instead of dwelling on failures, I choose to see all the ways He led despite my shortcomings.
Beyond my transition of getting engaged, this year also saw the marriage of one of my best friends to one of my Hungarian family members and her move to Hungary, and my own brother's marriage just a week later.
As we roadtripped across the country for these wedding festivities, we encountered several lighthouses. These pillars of hope and guidance have become a symbol for me in my faith, especially after wrestling through a season of doubt right before moving to Hungary. I loved seeing these lighthouses once again, as Rend Collective's "My Lighthouse" played in my mind.
This song has been the anthem for my year:
In my wrestling and in my doubts
In my failures You won't walk out
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
In my failures You won't walk out
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
In the silence, You won't let go
In the questions, Your truth will hold
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
In the questions, Your truth will hold
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
I won't fear what tomorrow brings
With each morning I'll rise and sing
My God's love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
With each morning I'll rise and sing
My God's love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea
My lighthouse, my lighthouse
Shining in the darkness, I will follow You
My lighthouse, my lighthouse
I will trust the promise
You will carry me safe to shore
Shining in the darkness, I will follow You
My lighthouse, my lighthouse
I will trust the promise
You will carry me safe to shore
Fire before us, You're the brightest
You will lead us through the storms
You will lead us through the storms
The beauty of the harbor and the sea was absolutely mesmerizing. But one morning there appeared to be more commotion than usual at the harbor. One of the young sailors had made a mistake and ended up with his sailboat overturned in the sea, sinking as the water poured in. I'm not sure what happened, but I overheard several of the more experienced sailors talking about the foolishness of the sailor who had made an "elementary" error, and therefore lost his boat. The way they talked, it sounded as though they had tried to talk him out of setting out but he hadn't heeded their advice.
This left a great impression on me, and made me stop and think about times when I chose to ignore the Lord's guidance, even if only for my own pride: thinking I know better than He does.
And yet, the Lord has continued to be so abundantly gracious to me, not allowing me to capsize, but rather waiting for me to come to my senses, to come back to Him, and to seek His face.
Psalm 25, my guidance Psalm floats before me: He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way (verse 9). In order to be led, I must be humble. I must acknowledge that I don't know the way.
It was in those moments of humbling myself before Him that He led. More beautifully than I ever could have imagined. In the moments when I was still and waited for Him, He showed up.
And at the end of 2017, gazing back down the now brightly lit path that once stood shrouded before me, I see all the ways He led. The ways He hemmed me in, behind and before. Though for each of the places I recognize His hand, there are thousands that I may never know.
2017 has been a blessed year because my Lord has been my Shepherd. He has led me beside quiet waters and comforted me with his rod and staff. He has laid a feast before me. Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me into 2018, and beyond.
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