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.

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?

Snow Day

We had a white Christmas, my family and I. Not the kind you normally think of, though. We didn't skip through the snow while Christmas shopping or sit and watch the flakes drift lazily from the sky. It rather snuck up on us (though we had heard it was coming). It fell in the night, greeting us the next morning, blanketing the trees and the houses and the ground, until all were just lumpy, white silhouettes.

Snow usually does something for my soul.

A little over a year ago, I sat on my bed, home alone, and watched tiny snowflakes drift to the ground, and my heart was stilled. There weren't many flakes, and I knew it was too warm for them to survive their journey down, but something about those daring flakes refreshed my soul. I didn't quite know why. There really wasn't an explanation. I think perhaps it was the hope of a blanket of white. Perhaps the hope that all would be covered and clean. I had been living in an uneasy spell. The kind where I would rest my head at night feeling distant and disconnected. That day, the snow made me think. It helped me sort through myself. It refreshed me.

When I looked out my window the day after Christmas, I didn't feel the refreshing. I was rather disappointed. But it still made me think.

Why didn't I feel the refreshing? I still love it. I love trees layered in brown and white. I love seeing no roads or sidewalks or driveways, only white. I love the cars and trucks and vans all wearing icy caps.  I love the world so quite and still and pure, but I didn't feel the stillness inside. I didn't feel the blanket of peace covering my heart with a clean quilt of calm. I think because I'm in one of those uneasy spells. So I told God. I told Him I need quieting, stilling, purifying, and refreshing. I asked for snow on my heart.

Last night, rather late, I got a message from a friend who had soul questions. I was tired, but I stayed up to text her; I wanted to help. I had no idea that God was using her to speak to me. The problem she had was the uneasiness, the restlessness, the knowing that something isn't right between her and God. The things I told her were the things God was telling me that second, things that I needed to hear just as much as she.

I told her that she would ache for a while from the pain in the past, but eventually she needed to simply accept that as part of her story and move forward.

How hypocritical am I! I've had such a hard time stitching my past into my story. I fear I've been keeping it raw, dangling me in front of me throbbing and dripping with pain. My reason is rather silly. It' s not because I feel angry or bitter. It's because I want to hold onto the hurt. I want to hold onto it because I want to need people.

Ridiculous isn't it? That I should keeping ripping open my pain so I may keep on hurting. It makes no sense. But I want to need people. I want people to keep asking questions and keep offering comfort and keep caring. What if they leave as soon as I'm done hurting?

I don't feel that way about everyone. I have solid oak friendships that I know will remain no matter what happens. But there are a few frail ones, too. Some little seedling friendships that don't have strong roots. I'm so afraid they'll blow away at the first calm breeze.

It's all backwards, isn't it? Most people probably fear relationships will topple in a storm. I think I'm different because I so want to feel needed and wanted. I want to be special to people. I want to be someone to them only I could ever be.

I think that's why I've been uneasy. I think that's why the snow didn't calm my heart.
It's time to let go, Moriah.

How wonderful that the God who created the heavens and earth cares enough to make me restless until all between us is well!

He has come.

Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheer.
But to be perfectly honest, I haven't been very Christmas-cheery lately. I've been having a bit of trouble getting into the Christmas spirit.
I've tried to grow jolly. I've listened to music and gone to parties. I've eaten fudge and watched more Hallmark movies than should be legally permitted, but I still can't seem to make myself sing, "Christmas!"
A few nights ago, I watched "The Nativity Story" with my friends and was reminded of something I can hardly believe I forgot. My heart awakens at the thought of it, like an ember that glows as a result of a breeze. That night, my soul remembered:
Immanuel
How could I have forgotten?
Immanuel. The most beautiful word ever spoken, ever heard, ever written.
Immanuel. At the thought of it, my heart swells in my chest. At the sound of it, throats so dry from crying out are quenched. Eyes so wet from desperate tears are dried. Arms so weak from reaching and begging are lowered in relief.
Immanuel. He has come.
The image of the invisible God walked among us. God walked among us.  Sometimes I forget, but I don't think I will ever grow used to the idea of God among us.
The Word became flesh, and his flesh was just as frail as ours: susceptible to bruise and break and bleed.
The Creator dwelt as creation. The tongue that flung stars into galaxies could suddenly only coo and cry. The hands that inscribed stone with commands for thousands of generations could suddenly fit around a teenage girl's finger.
Immanuel. God with us. Not here for a visit; not just checking in. God dwelt with us.
I watched "The Hobbit" today, and strangely enough, it reminded me of Christmas. There was one scene, an inconsequential moment really, that grabbed my attention.
Bilbo Baggins dangled precariously from a cliff, sure to soon plunge to his untimely death. The dwarves clamored to rescue him, grasping at his hands, trying to get a grip to save their companion. Their efforts seemed in vain, until Thorin leapt from his position of safety on the ledge to the treacherous crags where Bilbo hung. The dwarf king jumped down from the cliff to reach the Hobbit. It was such a small moment in the movie that I'm not sure anyone else noticed. But in that moment, my insides stilled. I thought to myself, "That's my kind of king," and my heart remembered again: Immanuel.
How can I keep forgetting?!
I become so consumed with my own inconveniences and discomforts. I become so concerned with the cheer and home and happiness of Christmas, that I forget the only thing that really matters.
God with us. Immanuel.
Remarkable. I don't believe I can ever think of it without the still, calm wind rushing through me, stilling my soul, calming my heart, refocusing my mind.
This changes everything.
Hallelujah. He has come.

How I Am

People ask me, as I'm sure they do you, a hundred times a day how I am. Most times, they are simply being cordial. You are supposed to ask that, right? You are supposed to care. But sometimes, very rarely, the people who know me will look me in the eyes and ask. And I know they don't want to know how my day was. They want to know how my heart is. How I am. Most times I tell the cordial people I am good. Most times I tell the real seekers I am ok. The second one is true.

I really am ok. I don't walk around thinking about pain or feeling angry. In fact, most of the time, I'm pretty happy. I love my life at school. I love the people in it. And my happiness isn't fake. I'm not putting on a show for anyone. I really do feel it. But that's only mostly me.

Touring a cavern, they take you deep down beneath the earth, but they only take you so far. They only can take you so far. And you're not seeing something fake. It's still really the real cave, it's just not all the way down. Down deeper is much messier, without the nicely paved sidewalks or lighting. It's a sloppy place, the belly of a cavern. I suppose it's the same with people. Deep down is pretty messy.

My happy runs deep, it goes beneath the surface (that's called joy), but my very, very inside isn't such a pretty place. It's beat up. My heart and my soul are bloody and bruised. They don't hurt from just one thing, because nothing hurts from just one thing. One thing produces a thousand shards of a thousand little things that fly out and cut and hurt. Life is broke and sloppy. Humans cause pain, and the hurt sloshes out and splashes on anyone near. Deep down in the center of me is an ache. Most days it's just a dull throb; some days I even forget or choose to ignore that it's there. But some days, when I can slip away by myself and let myself think, I bleed.

Those days I don't want to slap on a band-aid and move forward. I need to bleed. I don't want to be cheered up. I just want to sit and ache and cry and bleed. Wounds have to hurt before they heal, or else they wouldn't be wounds at all.

I don't want to spend my life with an aching soul, but I think for now it fits. Ache is an appropriate response to painful experiences. But one day, I will wake up without the hurt. And the next day again. And the day after that. And one day I will not daily feel the throbbing in my core. I think I must choose it.

I will. I will choose to pat the pain on his head and send him on his way. In fact, I am already starting to do that, a bit every day. But sometimes I'm too tired to shoo him off. And sometimes I don't want to. I don't think that's wrong. I think it's real.

So how am I? I'm ok. But one day, one day soon perhaps, I will be grand.

Aching

My heart broke once,
And every so often, it breaks again.
It broke first as I watched my life go up in flames
And again and again when I poke through the ashes.

Would it be better if my heart were made of steel?
That I should feel nothing and bear all?
It would not hurt so very much.

But I am a human, and through my heart flows blood.
I do not hate to bleed.
I do not even hate the pain that comes with a bloody heart.

Perhaps it would be easier to have a heart of steel,
But so much less alive.

He's Got This.

He's got this. Those three words have been my solace this last week and a half. When I start feeling desperate, when I start feeling hopeless, when the knot starts forming in the pit of my belly, I remember those three words: He's got this. Oh, how He does.

For the very first time in my life, I am facing a real trial. I never fully grasped the weight of James' words, "Consider it pure joy..." until I was squeezed. It's not fun. But I do see the joy. It's not here yet, but it's coming. That's hope.

I've learned so many things since this tumultuous trial began. So many more than I would have without the flames. Thank you, God, for that.

I've discovered the immense comfort of the Scriptures. God soaks His Word in comfort. His passages soothe and untangle the knot in my gut. Memorizing, quoting, and reading God's word are as aloe to a burn: instant relief and healing. One of my very favorite verses is Zephaniah 3:17. "The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing." Praise Jesus. Thank you, God.

I've felt God with me. He is walking with me in the storm. Beth Moore talks about when Jesus walked on water. I had never thought of the situation in the way she portrayed it. The story is in Matthew 14:22-33.
The disciples are in a boat, far from shore. They're struggling in a storm. Jesus comes out late, somewhere between 3 and 6 in the morning (the fourth watch of the night). I imagine they've been struggling for hours. When He gets there, He doesn't do what He's done in the past. Just chapters earlier, He silenced the wind and stilled the waves with his words. But this time, He doesn't open His mouth. Instead, He walks into the storm. He walks on the waves as the storm rages on. The disciples are terrified; they don't even recognize Him. Instantly, He speaks up, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid." Then Peter says the unthinkable. He tells Jesus to call him out of the boat. He offers his life, and Jesus says, "Come." Peter does. Peter walks on water with the Lord. When he notices his surroundings, he becomes overwhelmed and sinks, and Jesus immediately rescues him. The storm doesn't stop until together they return to the boat.
Jesus could have changed the circumstances. He could have rebuked the wind and waves and stopped the storm right then. He had done it before. He could have instantly removed the terror and discomfort, but He didn't. Instead, He walked into the disaster and called his follower to walk with Him.
This is my life. God has the power to stop the hurricane. I don't doubt that for a second. But instead, He's chosen to walk out to me, to call me out to walk with Him.
I have lived my entire life on calm waters, on land. Thank God, for that. God has so richly blessed me with a happy, easy life. I have always said I place my trust and faith in Him. Now all that is challenged. Now is the opportunity to show that what I have always said is truth. God has given me the opportunity to live out my words. I think this is the pure joy in the trial. The testing of my faith will develop perseverance.

I'm not worried. He's got this.

Four Things

Someone asked me yesterday to list four things I learned this semester. I, of course, could barely think of one at the moment. So later I cracked open my journal and read the 70 pages that make up these past four months.

1. January 26, 2012
     Our first Singers trip went well! Much better than I expected. The drive home, however, was perhaps my favorite part. Karisa drove me back, and we left earlier than the rest. We stopped at Backyard Burger to get my dinner before leaving town. I was so upset they didn't make my burger plain. We were in a hurry to head back because the weather was supposed to get bad. And it did. Extremely bad.
     We drove through lightning first, the sky flashing every few seconds to reveal dark clouds with sinister tails threatening to drop from their roiling blackness. In minutes we were swallowed into the belly of the storm. The rain pounded so hard all we could make out were the reflectors on the road. The lightening electrified the sky, so bright it hurt my eyes. It was strange: such brightness that didn't illuminate, but merely filled the air with light.
     I felt a bit nervous, but it was peculiar. I was not scared. I looked at the rain and the flashes and saw the magnificent power of God. The radio played the most perfect songs, one being "Light Up the Sky." I was not afraid, not because I was at peace with dying (which was a real possibility), but because God was in control. I knew He would take care of us.
Just minutes earlier I had been worried about pickles on my sandwich.

2. February 18, 2012
     This weekend is our first overnight Singers trip. I've decided this year to learn something from each home I stay in... I learned two things:
     The first is a small something. We talked a bit about crazy coincidences, things we laugh about and say "It's such a small world!" Mrs. Ellen made the comment, "Well I guess we know Who has a hand in that!" I'd never considered that. I'd never considered God planning those delightful, unpredictable encounters.
     The second is a bit larger and deeper. Natalie made a comment about the closeness of our youth group in high school that I suppose stuck with Mrs. Ellen. She later told us that she had heard an alarming statistic on the rate of youth group members that maintain church attendance after graduating. She told us that her sons had all grown up in the same youth group. Now, one attends church, one is nominally a member, and one does not attend at all. And all from the same youth group. I suppose I always knew, but at that moment it hit me how vital the personal relationship is. I think perhaps the statistic has always been alarming. But there are and always will be exceptions to the statistics. They are rare, yes. But there are, scattered among us, the truly dedicated disciples. Like jewels hidden in the depths of the mine, lying between ordinary chunks of rock and earth, they exist. Oh how I long to be such a gem!

3. March 25, 2012
     We had two "wow" moments on the retreat. The first was Thursday night.
It had been a gloomy, rainy day. In our final session, the last song we sang was "You're Beautiful" by Phil Wickham. As soon as we started singing, the sun burst through the cloudy sky into a beautiful sunset. The light illuminated the room in a shower of gold and orange. As we sang about how beautiful He is, He showed us. All I could do was turn and sing, looking out the window at the light that does not even compare to the light of Christ.
     The second came Friday night.
We watched the Louie Giglio video "Indescribable." In it, he shows the vastness of the universe and the tininess of our earth. God displays His power in space. The day had been cloudy and rainy (again!). In fact, we had just played outside in the dark with not a star in sight. The whole video, I asked God to sweep away the clouds and reveal His stars, reveal His power, reveal Himself. When I walked outside to the bonfire, I looked to the sky in amazement. The sky glittered with a million diamonds, with balls of fire miles upon miles away. He showed Himself.
     The universe is huge. God is bigger. He measures it with the width of His hand. If our planet is a speck of dust in a ray of light, how small are we?
And He died for us.
He wanted me so badly, He gave up His kingdom, His title, His safety, His life for me. He became sin Who knew no sin that we, we minuscule beings living on a tiny speck of dust, might become His righteousness.
That is my God.

4. April 1, 2012
     Last night, I went to see "The Hunger Games" with some friends. It was late; we went to the 10:05 showing. On our way, our friends called to tell us that there was an accident, that we should take a detour, but we misunderstood the exit to take. We stopped in traffic, waiting to move on. We could see the number of emergency vehicles, more arriving as we waited, and we knew it was bad. But we had no idea.
     When we drove by, all I could say was, "Oh, God... Jesus, please." I was not using His name in vain. I really was crying out to Him.
Debris littered the highway, like a tornado had torn through a house. The vehicle itself lay on its roof, barely resembling a Jeep. It looked as if a giant had heartlessly crushed it with his fist. A young man, a teenager, sat on the side with his head in his hands, a woman next to him offering what comfort she could.  And on the asphalt lay two black bags. Two black bags holding two soul-less bodies. I have never seen anything like it.
     I felt so selfish to carry on my way to the movies. It felt so meaningless. I felt shallow to cry at the loss of a character when, that night, parents in real life would be told they lost their child. So instead, I turned to the wall and cried for those families. I had so anticipated that movie, but I didn't truly enjoy it. I kept thinking of those black bags and those suddenly smaller families.
     On our way home, we drove through the place where the accident had been. All that remained was a bit of scattered debris, broken glass, and the wetness on the road where they had attempted to wash it all away. I think one of us commented, "Oh good, it's cleaned up." But it wasn't really. You can't clean a mess like that. You can pick up pieces and take away debris. You can kick the glass into the ditch and blast away oil and blood with water. But you can't clean it up. From now on, families are smaller. From now on, friends are always missing one. From now on, two souls are spending eternity somewhere.
You can't clean that up.

Best Friday

Today isn't just Good Friday. It's the very best Friday.

Today's the day they say that you died for me,
Gave up your breath to give me life.
But I think what you've done reaches far beyond words.
It's bigger than a catchy phrase or a familiar verse.
This thing you've done is far too big to grasp.
I cannot wrap it in a box and place a bow atop.
I cannot speak words that explain your actions.

"Suffering" doesn't cut it.
"Agony" doesn't begin.
"Sacrifice" is so unworthy.
"Gift" is far too kind.

You took off your king robes
Not in exchange for something greater,
But for the humiliation of nakedness.

You gave up authority to speak into existance
Not for a slightly lower position,
But for the silence of a lamb.

You gave up heaven for Nazarath
And galaxies for earth.

I cannot describe your actions.
I cannot express your deeds.
I will never comprehend the extent of such love.

But I taste it.

It flavors my life.
It seasons my heart.
My soul leaps at a drop of it.
My body surges with the warmth of just one morsel.

I cannot explain it.
And for that,
I praise you.

Is this love?

I wrote a song yesterday. This is strange because a) I don't do that and b) I didn't know I could do that.

Wednesday in chapel, a girl who spent a semester in Bangladesh spoke about her experience. I felt saddened by the living conditions of the people and their lives. But what really affected me was the pictures and stories about their sacrifices.

She showed pictures of blood flowing down the streets, blood that they hoped would cover their sins. She said they wanted a deliverer, but they just couldn't believe it was Jesus.

That's when my heart broke.

Yesterday when I sat to play the piano, I played a sad song. Suddenly it had words. I questioned God. I don't understand why He doesn't just swoop in and save the day. He could, right? When I finished my song, I wasn't satisfied. The song was complete, but it didn't really express what I was feeling. I didn't feel angry or disillusioned by God. I felt something else. A sense of responsibility. I kept playing and singing, working out the kinks. Halfway through a sentence, I froze. This is not my song to God; this is His song to me.

How can you let them suffer,
Can you see them try so hard to see your face?
How can you hear them crying
Out for you to pick them up?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people?
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

How can you see them striving,
Can you see them pouring out their sacrifice?
Why won't you let them know
That the blood's in vain,
Let them know that the price is paid?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people.
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

Radical?

What is a radical Christian?

We hear about the habits of certain believers. We read about Daniel refusing to eat the rich food of the Babylonians and taking time to pray three times a day. We hear about a person memorizing whole books of the Bible. We hear these stories and think, "Wow. They are radical Christians." But are they really?

Is it really radical to refuse to eat what God forbade? Is it radical to spend three hours in prayer when Christ says to pray without ceasing? Is it radical to memorize several verses when we are taught to hide His word in our hearts? Is it radical, or is it expected?

Perhaps our idea of radical Christianity is distorted. Perhaps distorted by the world's expectations. Perhaps we do the bare minimum. Perhaps we do just enough to be seen as Christians, but not enough to really appear different.

When the Israelites left Egypt, they numbered around two million. Out of these original two million, only two entered the Promised Land. Why? Because they were the only two who completely trusted, who completely held God to His word by obeying Him. One in a million.

Complete surrender, complete obedience is not popular. Nor is it common. But is it truly radical?

What if we were radical by the world's standards? What if we refused to eat the richness of the world, refused to watch what they watch or hear what they hear? What if we refused to find entertainment or humor in the things God hates? What if we devoted time to be still and listen or to memorize His word? What if we were actually different on the outside, and not just within? Would we be radical? Or would we just be obedient?

Flying with Geese

Do you ever have a million thoughts flying around in your head? Colliding into each other? Each rambling down a separate path, but, somehow, you know they are all connected? I do.

The geese last week were migrating. They came in droves to land in the farmers' fields or soar above my head as I trudged to class. I watched them fly in their v's, seamlessly changing leaders, all surging toward what their eyes cannot see and their tiny brains cannot grasp. Surging toward something they simply know is.

I heard a question recently, a question that didn't really want an answer. If God knows our future, why would He create people who He knows will not choose a relationship with Him?

I don't have the answer. I don't think there is one. But I'm reminded of the geese...

I think of the geese that fly without doubt, the geese who do what they're supposed to do without question or suggestion.
How dull it would be to be a goose.
I don't envy geese. I don't want to spend time with them. I would not choose a goose as my best friend or give everything to have a relationship with one. I want to spend time with thinkers. I want to hear other thoughts or opinions, to share life.

When I was young, and only on a few occasions, I played with my grandmother's doll house. I made them talk and walk. I gave them names and personalities. And I suppose I enjoyed it. But the real fun, the real thrill came when I imagined them alive, when I imagined them as little people living, moving, breathing, speaking on their own. I enjoyed the dolls most when the dolls came to life.

God did not want an earth filled with generation after generation of dolls. He wanted life.

I wonder, if  I were Creator, if I could do it. Could I make creatures who would not choose me? Would I make a little boy who would grow into a little man who would declare I didn't even exist? Would I not? Would I refuse to create him simply because he would not choose me? I don't know. It would break my heart.

I am glad we are not ignorant fowl. I am thankful we form opinions and ideas and questions. But I think, eventually, we must choose to fly like the geese. There are seasons for questions; yes, many seasons in my life. However, not every question will have an answer. Not every puzzle piece will fall neatly into its place of logic. It is then that we must fly like the geese: not knowing how or why, but simply soaring, surging toward what we know is truth.