Delight

When I was four years old, my family joined my father and his youth group on a mission trip to my grandparent’s church in Germany. Most of the trip is a blur of dragging my feet through museums and outrage at discovering that not every international restaurant serves chicken strips, but one moment from that trip is vividly woven into my memory.

Workin' it in Germany

We went to Interlaken, Switzerland for a week or so. One day we roamed through a little town, probably souvenir shopping. I wandered up and down the cobblestone street with my dad, peeking into shops, mostly just feeling bored. Suddenly we came upon a shop with a display that actually caught my eye. It wasn't a rack of tacky t-shirts or tower of shot glasses. It was a shelf that held items most familiar and appealing: Barbie dolls. But these were no ordinary Barbies. They were dressed as traditional Alpine maids, complete with full skirt and bonnet. My breath caught in my throat. I just had to have one. There was only one problem: I just couldn't ask.

Sometime in my earlier childhood, my mother read my sister and me a little book entitled The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies. Ever since then, I feared asking for any gifts lest I be labeled as infected with the dreaded gimmies. I imagined my parents' horror at any frivolous requests, so I kept quiet and banked on their telepathic abilities to fulfil my desires.

I can still feel that nervous twisting in the pit of my stomach as I stared at that Swiss Barbie. Finally overcome by that beautiful doll, I mustered every ounce of courage I had. I walked over to my daddy and took him by the hand. I led him over to the treasure. I used my softest, timid-est voice to tell him about what I'd found. 

I don’t recall ever asking him to buy me the doll. In fact, I don’t think I even did. Here’s what I do remember: I remember my little hand all covered up by his. I remember him handing me the doll and feeling like I just couldn't believe it was mine. I remember running out to show Mamma, “Look what Daddy bought me!” I remember I simply could not believe he could be so gracious. Most of all I remember how he looked, his eyes smiling from the inside out. He was so proud, so happy to have given me that gift. He simply beamed with delight. 

In Switzerland

I'm not sure if that trip sparked my desire, but I don't ever remember a time that I didn't want to grow up and go see the world. When I was young, I heard about a program that we Baptists support called Journeyman in which you spend two years after college serving on the overseas mission field, and I remember telling my mamma, "I think I want to do that when I grow up." I just knew I needed to go.

When I graduated college, I applied for Journeyman and several months later was invited to attend their expo at which I would undergo more interviews and submit my choices of where I would like to serve. Last month I went to that expo. It was a wonderful and completely overwhelming experience. I didn't feel worthy of the opportunity. This was something I had wanted to do since I was a little girl, but how could it be that it was really happening? Why should I get to do this thing I've always wanted? Why would God be so gracious?

Sometimes when I walk alone, I picture God next to me, just holding my hand as I talk to Him. I was doing that as I headed to the cafeteria for dinner on the last day of the expo. I thought about everything that had gone on that week, how I still just couldn't believe that this experience could be real, and all of a sudden, I was in Switzerland circa 1997. I was walking with my Daddy, my little hand all covered up by His, and He was beaming down at me, just bursting with joy to give me this gift.

You see, God delights in us. We so often talk about how He loves us and wants good for us, but don't forget about His delight. We are His children, and we are a joy to Him. He loves to give us the desires of our hearts. Please don't think for a minute that I'm saying that God just wants us to be happy, because He wants so much more than that. Our purpose on this earth is not our happiness; it's His glory. But when He can align our desires with His plan, man, that's just the best. 

And now, the rest of the story (cue Paul Harvey voice).

I went to the Journeyman expo hoping to find a job in the UK, but found that wasn't really an option. I picked my top three and returned home with a promise to hear about my final acceptance and placement in a few weeks. The weeks passed, and I did get a phone call, but it wasn't exactly the news I wanted to hear. None of my choices had worked out, and I wasn't going to be placed in any of them. However, there was a chance of another option, a job in London, but that plan wasn't solidified, and I'd have to wait several more weeks to find out if it was even a certain option.

I don't know that I've ever wanted something that badly. I seriously felt sick at the prospect of not getting to do Journeyman. I prayed and prayed and prayed that God would give me this gift, as long as it was in His best plan. After weeks of praying, I got a phone call. My heart was pounding as I listened to the voice on the other end tell me that a decision had been reached. Then he told me the news I so desperately wanted to hear. The job had gone through, I was invited to London.

Even after I hung up the phone, I still couldn't believe it. God didn't just give me my desire for Journeyman, He gave me my dream location. Why should He do that? Why should He go beyond what I even thought possible to bless me? How could He be so gracious? How could He be so good? I talked to my mamma after I found out, and she told me what I already knew. She said, "Moriah, you probably won't understand this until later in life, but parents delight in giving their children what they want." What a wildly beautiful love. 

See you in London!

Grief

Grief is a tricky thing. So often it lies dormant, tucked away in your heart, not throbbing or bleeding, but still there. Then some days it decides to poke its ugly head out. It sneaks out and grips your heart until you can't help but feel the pain. Those days hurt pretty badly.

My grief introduced itself into my life nearly two years ago.

Grief doesn't really seem to understand time.Two years may seem like ages to you, but it seems so very short to me. People often think that something that happened two years ago simply happened, that it's over and done. But it's really not. An explosion like that has shrapnel. It has rubble. It has ruin. That stuff doesn't just magically heal or disappear; it lingers and aches.

I will never forget the night two years ago that my daddy decided to tell the truth. I hope I never have to
experience that magnitude of grief again. Since that night, I have mourned. I have mourned a thousand deaths. Things died that you could never even see. Other people don't know that I still ache from these deaths, that I still grieve. They don't understand. And, quite frankly, I don't want them to, because the only way they could understand is to experience my pain themselves, and I would never wish that on anyone.

Some people say that time heals all things, but I'm not really sure if that's the case with grief. It doesn't heal completely anyway. It will always hurt. I don't ache nearly as much as I used to, but it hasn't gone away. It's a different kind of hurt now: less raw, softer, and more familiar. I know my pain by name now. I know how to deal with him, but he will never be a stranger to me.

I'm ashamed to admit that I sometimes find myself thinking that my grief is heavier than someone else's, that they don't deserve to feel the ache because mine is worse. That's very selfish of me. The truth is that everyone has something that aches, some little piece of their life that has been severed or torn or bruised. Life is messy, and we all have cuts and scars. No grief is less than another because all pain is real. I remember when I first met grief I had a friend who was earnestly trying to comfort me. She told me to think of all the people who had it worse than me. I told her the truth: I know there are people in desperate situations, but I hurt, too. My pain is real, too.

I don't bleed all of the time. Most days I am downright happy. Most days I can leave my grief tucked away in my heart. But today, I ache. Today I'm feeling. Today I am not okay. Tomorrow I will be, but not today.
I think that's healthy. I think it's good to look grief in the eyes when he pokes his head up. It's real at least. Honest.

If you're hurting today, I'm sorry. If you know someone who's hurting today, just be still. Listen. Cry with them. You don't have to comfort them or cheer them up. Just ache with them. It's okay to hurt.

People

For the past couple of years, my opinion of the human race has been subterranean at best.

Out of all of God's creations, we are the broken ones. We are the ones God chose to give His breath, yet we are the ones who choose to wave off His perfect wisdom in favor of our own pitiful ideas. We can't ever get it right, and lots of times we don't even want to. We cause explosions every day, and most times we already know the consequences. We cower and cry for ourselves as our shrapnel flies out, sticking and stinging anyone nearby. We're all battered and scarred, and it's our own fault. We've heard of the solution to our pain, but we don't want to give it up. We're all addicted to the drug of our own choices. 

Why on earth would God still want us? 

I cannot dare to claim that I deserve God's love, that I deserve for Him to want to talk with me and hold me and teach me, yet He does. I read the stories in the Old Testament of the Israelites who screw up over and over and over and over again. And every time, after He punishes them like any good father would, He reminds them, "I have loved you" (Malachi 1:2). 

For the past couple of years, I just couldn't see why.

I work at the Counseling Center at my college. Most days, I just make copies or print flyers or play my occasional daily round of Candy Crush. However, if someone comes in needing help, I get to tutor them. A few weeks ago, a girl came in asking for assistance. As we sat together, I tried my best to explain the material. I talked and used my hands and tried to think up good examples, but no matter what I did, she just stared at me with a blank look on her face. I wasn't even sure she was listening, much less understanding anything I said, and I found myself growing frustrated with her. Then all of a sudden, this thought popped into my head: God created her.

Suddenly, I remembered that God knit her together in her mother's womb. I imagined Him forming every finger, counting each hair on her head. I remember that He loves her so very deeply that He sacrificed for her. I remembered that He knows her. And He wants her to know Him. He wants to laugh with her and ache with her and live every single day with her.
And all of a sudden, I  loved her.

I tried it again later. I picked a random person and simply began to think about God creating and loving and knowing him, and it happened again. My heart swelled and my eyes pricked with tears. I loved him, too.

I kept trying it. I tried seeing people through God's eyes, imagining Him molding them and knowing them and loving them. I tried it with family and friends and strangers, and every single time, I found myself falling in love with them. I can't seem to help loving those whom my greatest Love adores.

These past several weeks, God has been changing my opinion about people.  I've started seeing things I never noticed. Like how people have invented dry-erase markers and toaster ovens and the internet. Like how we smile when someone tells a joke or roll our eyes when we're annoyed. How we pick the people we like and hug and kiss and high five. How we make up songs and stories. How we skateboard and build campfires and paint masterpieces.

Mostly I've been thinking about how each person has a story.

Sometimes when I'm driving, I look at the people in the cars I pass, and sometimes, for a second, our eyes connect. For that single second, we have a relationship. I find myself wondering about their story, who they are, what they've seen, why they are.

I've been thinking that maybe people aren't as crummy as I thought before. We're actually kind of incredible.

We each have our own minds. We have our own thoughts and emotions, senses of humor and senses of pain. We connect with other people. We humans become this web of connections, relationships. We share thoughts and emotions. Our lives spread out and start to smear together. Our souls connect and spark like static electricity. Billions of people have stood on earth and returned to dust, and each one was alive, with a sparking soul and a smearing life.

I don't say that with an ounce of pride. When I start admiring and loving people, I don't hear God clearing His throat with eyebrows raised, scolding me for forgetting that He is the One who created everyone, that He is the One who instills abilities and keeps the breath flowing through our lungs. Actually I hear Him agreeing with me. Tears spring to my eyes as in the deepest part of my soul, I hear Him say, "Yes. You get it." I think He tears up right along with me.

I cannot deny that people are flawed; I've experienced it firsthand. But we are beautiful, too. We are God's masterpiece, His greatest, most favorite creation. We are the ones He chose to die for. We are the ones He gave His breath. He loves us, and I think He wants us to love us. After all, loving people is number two on His list of things to do (Matthew 22:37-39).

When I love and admire people, I'm not applauding their merits, I'm worshiping God. I'm acknowledging that He is a magnificent, brilliant, creative maker.
I love these things He makes.

A taste of grace

Sometimes I get stuck in this rut of thinking I have it all together. I start looking at my habits and choices and think that I'm doing alright. I sing the old hymns about Jesus' cleansing blood, but I don't sing them for me.They are for the ones who really need help. I get to a place where I don't see my need for forgiveness, and I brush aside Christ's sacrifice as worthless. I forget what the flavor of grace.

Then I spend some time at home.

I'm not sure if anyone can relate, but whenever I spend an extended period of time with my family, I'm vividly reminded of my imperfections. Around my family, I let my guard down, and my true self rears its head. My true self doesn't look nearly as nice as the self I give to the masses. It is much more selfish and rude and demanding. Quite ugly, actually. That self made a special guest appearance to Christmas break this year.

By the end of my break, I found myself immensely discouraged at my own ugliness. It seemed that every day I would wake up intending to be good. I would wake up planning to be kind and sweet and thoughtful, the perfect daughter/sister/granddaughter. But every day, I failed. No matter how pure my intentions, I wasn't good. And once I realized I wasn't, I felt so discouraged that I stopped trying. I hated the fact that I wasn't perfect.

The last Sunday of my break, I went to church feeling the weight of my imperfection. I stood with the others and sang along to the familiar tunes, not really meaning a word I said, until the worship leader began leading the final song. It was a song I've sung a hundred times, a song I've probably known since before I could read the age-old words: "Jesus Paid It All." As I began singing along, I ached in the pain of my mistakes. I told God, "I'm sorry that I'm not perfect." I think He smiled at me. He said, "I know. Listen to what you're singing. I took care of your imperfection."

Jesus paid it all. All to Him I owe.

And suddenly, I tasted grace.

I am not perfect, no matter how hard I try to make others believe I am. I cannot be. I am just as much a sinner as any other soul on this earth. My strength indeed is small. I am not good, but He is. Thank God, He is. I cannot ever deserve His forgiveness.

There's a verse in Romans that I once proudly presented to a friend who had questions about salvation by works. I realize now I need it more than she.

"And if by grace, then it is no longer by works; if it were, grace would no longer be grace." (Ro. 11: 6)

On Sunsets and Life and Death

When I was a little girl, I started talking with God, and we simply never stopped. I’m not sure when our conversation began, and I’m not really sure that it matters. Sometimes, many times, I’m a terrible listener, and I just want God to sit still and hear my problems, then I yell at Him for not speaking up. But sometimes, far too few times, I stop talking and hear what He has to say. Those are the golden times. Occasionally His voice stings the ears of my heart and singes the skin of my soul. More often, though, His voice is soft, not a whisper, much stronger than that, but still and quiet and full of love. It squeezes my heart and lights the warmest of candles in my soul.

I suppose I’ve seen sunsets all my life, but it took me nearly twenty years to notice them.  See, I was hurt just months before my twentieth birthday. My heart got all crushed up, and I was stuck trying to uncrinkle the mess. I started aching then and needing to hear the soft part of God more than ever before. I began walking at dusk, going to where the trees begin to thin and some farmer’s crop stretches out into the sky, and watching the sun dip further and further down until it slipped from my sight. I’m not sure how or why or when, but suddenly sunsets became important to me. They soothed my soul like lotion on wintry hands, and I started listening to God again as I watched day and night meet in a soft, sweet farewell.

I started seeking sunsets because I loved their beauty. There is something utterly magical about the final bow of a day. In those final few moments when the sun inches closer and closer to the horizon, time simply stands still. Slowly, ever so slowly, the sky acknowledges its imminent departure with the warmest of paints, colors lazily spreading out and engulfing clouds and embracing the very air itself. The sun is in no hurry. It calmly makes its exit with the grace and elegance of an actress taking one final curtain call.  And then, seemingly suddenly, the sun is gone, and something amazing happens: the light remains. The most beautiful of colors stream across the sky after the sun has dipped out of sight. The very air itself takes on the glow of the passing day. The sun is not forgotten; it cannot be, for its luminosity lingers.

I have a theory. It isn’t impressive, and I doubt it’s very novel. In fact, I’m nearly certain some philosopher has said it before in language much more eloquent with thoughts far loftier than mine. My theory is this: life is a series of births and deaths.

I think I first explored this theory the night I met a brand-new-born baby. My high school small group drove an hour to visit our leader just after she delivered her third baby girl, Ellie. She was small and red and squirmy and so very, very fresh. They asked if I wanted to hold her, but I refused. I was so in awe. This little baby was perfect. She had never seen pain or shame or suffering. That very same night, we got a phone call. A man in our community, an upstanding, prominent citizen, killed himself. All I could think of when I heard of his death was tiny little Ellie, all new and pure, just starting this thing we call life.

Other things die, too. Not just people. On my way to move into college my freshman year, I made a detour to drive past my high school, a place that had been very tough for me. As I passed, I gave one final pat to the dirt atop the grave I had dug for those awkward, painful years. I was happy to bury that ugliness. But sometimes lovely things die. That time my heart got hurt, a lot of really beautiful things died, and it’s hard to remember the birth part of that theory of mine when dead things start piling up in all the corners.

When I first started watching sunsets, my heart was a pitiful, bloody mess. I ached and ached from all those deaths without funerals. It’s so very hard for me to bury something I can’t touch. To me, death was ugly and mean. But when I saw the sun set, I saw a different sort of death. I began loving sunsets because they made death beautiful. It was soft and warm and kind. It ached a little, of course. After all, the day was gone, never to return. But there’s a little bit of peace in saying a final goodbye. And in that fading light, there was hope.

You see, the sun rises, too. Every single day. Sometimes I can’t see it. I seldom wake up early enough to watch it peek over the horizon, and occasionally blustery clouds angrily refuse admittance to its rays. But it’s there. It always is. It’s kind of a promise. Each time the sun sets, I know that it will rise again. There are still days when the sun sinks from the sky while I watch with tears choking up in my throat. There are still times that I cry aloud, “Don’t go.” But it’s then, in those final, golden hours, when the earth ceases with its revolutions and time hangs like a fisherman’s lure cast through the air, that God speaks again. And in His quiet, strong voice, He reminds. Tomorrow, there will be light. Tomorrow, there will be warmth. And tomorrow, a day, new and fresh, will arrive. I simply have to make it through the night. 

Confessions of a Bad Missionary

I am a terrible missionary.

That's my official job title, you know? Summer missionary. But I haven't been doing a very good job.

To be perfectly honest, these past few weeks I've developed a bit of a bad attitude towards missions. Or maybe not so much towards missions, but towards other missionaries. See, I've grown up in The Ministry. I've been going on mission trips since before I was a whole year old. And some time, in all those years, I've determined that I am the most experienced, that I am the one who does things right. And honestly, I've begun to scoff at the others who mission-ize differently than I.

I told you I was terrible.

I've realized over the years that, while every mission team is unique, certain characters consistently reoccur. You know them. They go to your church, too.

There's the kid who is way too excited to make snow-cones. The mom who wants to makes sure everything is done correctly and safely. There's the youth pastor who tries so desperately to be "cool" and "relatable." The woman who cries every time she opens her mouth to share and the man who brought along a whole fanny-pack full of tracts. There's the person who just won't shut up about how "on fire" they are, or how much they "LOVE JESUS!" And don't forget the little old lady who doesn't quite like walking so much in the heat, but wants to warn the entire city about the warmth of hell. 

You see them. You know them. And you love them. But every now and then, you roll your eyes and snicker at them. 

At least I do.

This summer I got into the nasty habit of inwardly eye rolling and snickering far too frequently. In fact, I began to discount the worth and effectiveness of my Mission Trip Stereotypes.

Until last night.

Last night, I rode with a team leader, a fellow summer missionary, and three older ladies: two above the age of 70 and one teetering on the downhill slope of middle age. We drove to houses of previous block party attendees to give them information on our church. As we went house to house, the three ladies were the designated door-to-door goers. After they got back in the car, we would ask how it went. I would cringe every time one of them told how she had asked, "Do you know if you'll go to heaven?" "Stop it," I thought, "we're not here to evangelize on doorsteps. Just smile, drop off the material, and be on your way." 

I know, I know. I'm terrible. 

After we went to several houses, we had one bag left. We drove to the nearest address, and the middle-aged woman got out to deliver the materials. I promptly pulled out my phone and began playing Candy Crush as we waited on her to finish. She was gone for a good while, until she stepped out on the stoop of the apartment with another woman. The two of them talked for quite some time on the doorstep. The ladies in the car kept commenting on what could be happening. I kept playing my game. Then one of the ladies in the car noticed, "Oh, she's crying!" I glanced up to see the woman wiping tears from her eyes and nodding as our team member continued to speak. "Maybe she's going to accept Christ!", one of our ladies exclaimed, "We should be praying!" My first response: inward scoff and return to saving the Easter Bunny. 

Then I froze.

WHAT?!

What did I just do?! I rolled my eyes at the possibility of a woman becoming a Christian? How had I gotten to this point? How had I become so calloused and prideful that I discounted any attempts at evangelism that differed from my own? 

I put away my phone and began to pray for the two women outside. We watched as our team member wrapped her arms around the woman, and the two bent their heads together in an obvious display of prayer. When our team member returned to the car, the other ladies burst out, "Did she accept Christ?!" She softly replied, "Yes." The two little ladies squealed with joy.

I couldn't help the tears welling in my eyes as I watched their excitement and listened to the woman relate the experience. For far too long, I've missed it. I've missed the motivation beneath every stereotype I see. In that moment, I saw past the corny tracts and the eager evangelistic tactics.I saw past the cheesy Christian one-liners and the over-zealous, over-excited teams. Past the failed attempts at relatability and motivation. I saw past all I had mocked and scoffed and discounted, and I saw what I had so long missed. I saw their hearts. Hearts that love Jesus more than anything. Hearts that so desperately want others to know God's love, that they'll use any method they know. Hearts that are excited to serve. Hearts that so passionately want to make a difference.

I may not agree with some of their methods or fully admire some of their personalities, but honestly, many of these people whom I have worked with have been far better missionaries than I. They've had more boldness and passion and urgency for the Gospel. They've fulfilled their Commission to the best of their ability. I've simply completed my tasks and allowed myself to become used to the Gospel. I've forgotten the imperativeness of its spreading. 

I only have a few weeks left here in the beautiful Black Hills of South Dakota. In a few weeks, my job title will change, and I'll no longer officially be a "missionary." But that doesn't alter my responsibility. Because, let's be honest, we're all called to be missionaries, whether or not it's a full time, paycheck kind of gig.

I pray that God renews my passion and urgency. I pray that He gives me the motivation that I've seen in all of these "non-missionaries" I've worked with this summer. I pray that I may have the gumption and fervor to fulfill my Commission in the same way I've seen this summer. 

I'm sorry that I've been a bad missionary, but I can promise you I'm going to do better. 

The LORD God Almighty

Sometimes I forget who God is. That sounds ridiculous, right? How could I forget the one whom everyday I speak to and read about and talk about and work for? But I do. It's rather easy, honestly. See, my mind is small and my understanding is so very little. I can't grasp the fullness of God no matter how hard I try. So oftentimes, I make Him small, just like my mind.
But He's not.

I've been reading through the Old Testament lately, looking at the stories I grew up on and looking for truths I've never noticed. It took me the entire book of Genesis and the first few chapters of Exodus before I realized something: I've never fully understood the purpose of the Bible.

I've appreciated the Bible in a lot of ways. I've loved the stories. I've striven to follow its instruction. I've soaked in its expression of God's love and cried along with the psalmists who try to express love in return. But this past week, I realized it is something more than that. It isn't just the explanation of my faith or the stories of those who have gone before me. It's the story of God.

He's the main character of the book. He's in the first sentence and the last and every sentence in between. Each chapter, each section, shows another piece of Who He is. I know His character because it's embedded in every page. When I question or wonder or struggle, I can return to His Word and find truth, not in the stories or the proverbs or the instructions, but in Him.

As I recently read the story of Moses, I noticed how God introduces Himself, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob" (Exodus 3:6). Remember, 
He says. Remember the stories of your ancestors. I am the same God. 

The same God.

That's what I far too often forget. He isn't simply my friend or my father or my comfort or my teacher. He is the same God who spoke light into being. The same God who breathed life into dust and so loved it that He gave everything to know it personally. This God I serve is the same God who erased the nastiness of unrepentant sin from earth in the flood and the same God who graciously gave us a sign that He would never do that again.

Far too often, when I think of these stories I picture God as a kindly old grandfather with an interesting past. But He's not. He's still the same God. He's still the mighty creator, and zealous warrior, and loving father, and all-knowing teacher that I read about in this ancient text.

Every day, I look at and love the beautiful mountains of the Black Hills, and every time I see them, I can't help but think of Amos 4:13. And recently, every time I think of it, I remember just exactly Who I serve. I probably look like a crazy person, constantly smiling out my window, remembering Who my God is.

He who forms the mountains,
creates the wind,
and reveals his thoughts to man,
he who turns dawn to darkness,
and treads the high places of the earth -
the LORD God Almighty is his name.