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.

More than a game

Wednesday, I watched Karisa play her last softball game. Tears welled in my eyes when it was over. I watched my sister begin to weep, then pull herself together in one final noble act for the good of her team. I watched her smile as she, for one last time, stood congratulating and encouraging every teammate and coach. I wanted to cry because I knew, behind the smile, her heart was really broken.

To an outsider, it may seem a bit silly that a sport could mean so much. Even as I stood there, I tried to stop my tears by telling myself, “Oh it’s just a game.” But it’s really not. It’s fourteen years worth of passion.

We began playing softball the same year. I was six and Karisa was seven. We played together for years, until she was old enough to move up while I stayed behind. We both began playing simply because our parents signed us up. But from the beginning, there was a difference. In the backyard, Daddy and Karisa would practice catch, while I would mostly try to avoid being hit by the ball or cry because I had been hit. In the games, Karisa would have a position in the infield while I squatted, drawing in the dirt or picking flowers in the outfield. When it came to practicing on our own, both Karisa and I would complain. But while I would find excuses, for some reason, Karisa always ended up doing it. After about five years, I finally had enough, and I hung up my cleats. But Karisa kept going.

Sometime in those first few years, a coach suggested that Karisa try pitching. And I suppose that’s where it all began. I think she was eight. There’s no telling how much money my family spent on pitching books and Ernie Parker DVDs. But hey, those books and DVDs helped my father, who had definitely never played fast-pitch softball, teach my sister how to throw. I’m not really sure when the head-first dive occurred, but suddenly our summers were planned around pitching camps and softball tournaments. My family has never been on a vacation that wasn't based on a softball event. When Karisa got into high school, softball became more of a year-round thing. In the summer and fall, Daddy and Karisa would practice at the fields or in the rustic bullpen he had cleared in the woods across the street. When it got too cold, they would drive up to the church and practice in the gym. Sometimes I was dragged along to record practices so they could review the film later. I cannot count the number of times they would end practice earlier because one or both of them had gotten mad. I don’t even know how many times Daddy said, “I’m not helping you anymore,” or Karisa fought against his instruction. But in the end, the next day, they always went back out there, with two gloves and a bucket of balls, so that Karisa could become the best pitcher she could possibly be.

In all that time, I was always there, waiting at the church for practice to be over in the winter, sitting in a lawn chair at dusty fields in the summer, huddled in the dugout keeping stats for her high school team in the spring, walking across the soccer field to see a few college games in the fall. I wasn't known as a softball fan, though. In fact, it was pretty well known amongst my family that I strongly disliked the game. Let’s be honest. My idea of a vacation wasn't exactly dirt blowing all over my face as a girl slid into home plate. But secretly, I've kind of enjoyed softball all these years. Ok, summer ball, no. But these last eight years of high school/college have actually been borderline enjoyable. Yes, there have been moments when I've almost gone crazy after hours of driving to games. Yes, there have been moments when innings have dragged on for hours. Yes, there have been moments when I've been sick-at-my-stomach nervous when we just needed one more run. But watching my sister do something she truly loved, something she worked toward with everything in her, that made it all worth it.

As I stood watching my sister say goodbye to the game that has been her life for the past fourteen years, I didn't cry because I was sad that it was over. I cried at her passion. She has devoted over a decade to a single sport, a single position within that sport. Every choice she has made, from early morning runs to avoiding physically risky activities (*ahem* ice skating), has hinged on becoming the best softball pitcher she could possibly be, not only for herself, but for her coaches and her teammates.

As I stood with tears in my eyes, I thought about myself. What am I so passionate about? What do I care about enough that I will dedicate my life to doing it as best I can? What will I do to be the best I can be, not only for my own benefit, but for the benefit of those around me?

I think I've known all along that, to Karisa, softball is more than just a sport. But right here at the end, I've finally gotten it. Finally, at the last game I’ll probably ever watch my sister play, I saw past the dust and the lawn chairs and the car rides. I finally realized that these last fourteen years, I've seen real passion, dedication, and conviction.  And I so admire and thank my sister for that.

Little Conversations

God and I talk.
And I don't mean "praying". We just... talk.

I've always thought the spiritual discipline I struggled with most was prayer. And honestly, it probably is. I don't spend solid periods of time on my knees or even just sitting, praising Him, thanking Him, and laying out my and others' problems. But lately, I've started thinking maybe that's not really the point.

The Bible says to pray without ceasing. I can't spend all my time sitting alone in my room.
But I can talk to Him all day.
That's the best to me. That right there might be my very favorite part about being a child of God. I can talk to Him whenever I want.

I can talk to God. GOD! I can talk to GOD! Do you get it? Are you understanding this?! The Creator of heaven and earth! The Lord of the universe! The One who defeated death! I can talk to Him whenever I want! That's something right there. I can't even talk to my best friends whenever I want. But I have access to constant communication with THE God. I feel so cool.

And He talks back.

That's the tricky part, though. It's kinda hard sometimes to hear someone who doesn't speak audibly. Especially when you can't see him either.

But He does talk.
I'm not crazy.
I know His voice.

I can't really explain it. I don't hear it with my ears or my brain or even my heart. I hear it in the very deepest part of my soul. It's the Voice that I immediately recognize as Truth. Sometimes, when I feel really desperate to hear from Him, I try to imagine what He would say; I put words in His mouth. But that's not Him, and I have to remind myself of that. Then I have to be still. And in the deepest part of me, I plead to hear.
He's never failed me yet.

His voice is the most beautiful thing I know. It's so quiet, so calm, but it has more power than anything I can fathom. Every time I hear it, I feel like a ship being heaved into a harbor, like it's drawing me nearer, pulling me in tight. I feel my soul scooting up closer to Him. I love it.

Sometimes we laugh together. He thinks some of my jokes are pretty funny. I mean, He did create my sense of humor.

Sometimes He teaches me little lessons, like how life really is beautiful.

A lot of the time I just compliment Him on His handiwork. When I see a night sky or a beautiful sunset, I just have to say "Bravo!" or "Good one, God!" He likes that.

But I think my all time favorite conversations we have are the ones when He tells me He loves me.
Isn't it funny how we forget about that? He sacrificed His very life, and we forget about the love. I do it all too often.

I still remember the first time I heard His voice say, "I love you." I was maybe 13 and just having a rough day. I remember looking out the car window and begging, "Please, let me feel Your love." I've never forgotten it. I think that's the moment I first felt my soul on fire. Not a blazing wildfire. Just so very, very warm and like something in me were growing bigger and bigger. Fuller and fuller.

But I still forget sometimes.
Just a few days ago I forgot.

I was having another rough day, crying about things that couldn't be helped, just plain aching. And to top it off, I lost something important. I finished my cry, but I still needed to find what I had misplaced. I simply said, "God, I really need to find this." Then I reached into my purse and pulled it out. And promptly started crying again.

You do still love me.
Of course I do.
You haven't forgotten me.
Of course not. I never will.

I do still need to improve my prayer life. I do need to devote effort and energy to praise and thanksgiving and requests. I do need to set aside time to be still. But I wonder if our little conversations aren't just as valuable.

They're my favorite.

Torn Curtains and Mended Hearts

It's funny. I began this blog writing about Good Friday two years ago. The last Good Friday, I also wrote. There's just something about this day that sticks me in the soul.

I forget about Jesus sometimes. I mean, I pray and read the Bible every day. I go to a Christian college. I sing songs and memorize verses. But sometimes, I still forget.

I usually remember His love and His mercy and His grace. I don't forget to praise Him or ignore Him with my choices, but sometimes I forget what He did.

Just yesterday I realized Easter was coming. I knew, of course, already, but I hadn't remembered. Now Good Friday is here, and the reasons I love it so come flooding back into my mind.

Ever since I can remember, my very favoritest part of the Easter story has been what happens when Jesus breathes His last.

Darkness coats the sky and the air and land. The earth shakes. Rocks split. Tombs break open and release their dead. God will not allow the death of His Son to be silent or unnoticed. Pagans exclaim truth and recognize the King. And the curtain of the temple is torn in two.

That curtain. That is my favorite part.

I cannot fathom life without God in me. I cannot fathom being forced to live with the guilt of sin until I could smear bloody sacrifices over my mistakes. I can't imagine not talking to Him any second of every day. I can't imagine living without His constant presence.

Every time the curtain tears in the story, something within me stirs to life. God is here. He's available. He's no longer reserved for the holiest priest once a year. He's for me. In my mind I see something like the fall of the Berlin Wall, with people piling over and pouring in. Rushing into His presence. Finally, finally embracing.

The curtain had to be torn so that our connection to God could be mended. Isn't our faith so full of ironies? Isn't that why we call this Friday good?