Grace Abounding to the Chief of Jane Austen Lovers

Written as part of the "Broken Hallelujah" series with Prodigal and SheLoves Magazine

When October approached and I had been here a year, I felt I was really getting the hang of things. I could go to the tea shop and help my friends sort tea, I could eat the local noodles without gagging, and I found I was actually WANTING hot peppers in my food. My language had improved a lot. Though my grammar was still oftentimes horrific, I could communicate with people pretty well, and I felt I had grown to understand the culture much better. Crowds and honking didn't bother me as much as they had at first. I could keep my cool in chaotic situations that would have made me lose it a year before, and I could now speak to people in situations where before I would have frozen up. Oh, sure, there would still be moments when I used the wrong tone and had to repeat myself, but even the local people have those problems sometimes. All in all, I was feeling pretty comfortable.

A friend invited me to go to her hometown for the Mid-Autumn Festival. I was so excited to be spending a few days with all local people, even though I was a little nervous about it. But I felt I was ready, and I loved this precious friend. So we squeezed into the crowded bus like so many sardines, moving and pulsing as one with the squeaky stoppings and goings of the bus, and then packed ourselves onto a train where I sat across from a shirtless elderly man who liked to spit on the floor. I smiled as I thought how this was no big deal to me. In fact, I enjoyed the smooth motion of the train and was not too bothered by everyone peering over their chairs or strolling down the aisles only to stop and stare at me. Even the people walking down the aisles of the train shouting as they sold things like toothbrushes and light-up bouncy balls just made me laugh, even when they woke me up.

We arrived at my friend's hometown late at night. It was much colder than my city. The entire town has no taxis or buses, as you can mostly walk anywhere or pay the equivalent of a dollar if you want to take a little 3-wheel red vehicle to get somewhere. Or if you had a lot of people, you could take a bouncy white bread truck. We loaded up in a bouncy bread truck and thumpity-thump-thumped all the way to my friend's home. We walked up the stairs to the apartment, and I ate some instant noodles because I hadn't had any dinner. I looked up at the posters of prosperity gods and the Chairman plastered on the aging walls during the local TV commercials.

When it came time to sleep, we turned off the matchmaking game show and I shared my friend's bed, a hard board covered with a thin blanket but with a big poofy comforter on top. The windows were all open even though it was cold outside; I slept like a baby.

In the mornings we would eat the local noodles and moon cakes. We might go do a short activity in the late morning, then her mom might make lunch that consisted of things like greens, beer fish, pigs' ears, and chicken soup. Then we would have a long nap in the afternoon and maybe get up at 3:30pm. I couldn't understand her mom very well because she spoke their local dialect, but she was so kind to me.

There was nothing at all wrong with what we were doing every day. It was wonderful to be so immersed in my local friend's life and language. We would go to beautiful pagodas and hills and temples, we would go visit her various family members - uncles and grandparents - and we were getting some great rest and fresh air. But suddenly a longing for home gripped my heart so tight and wouldn't let go.

It's not that everything was bad - it was just all DIFFERENT: Meeting all her different family members, who all had shrines to the female Buddha in their homes and looked at me as a big curiosity and yet were incredibly hospitable and gracious to me; eating countryside food all the time; eating the noodles not just now and then but every single day for breakfast; constantly being corrected in my language usage because this was the first time I'd ever had to use it all day every day; not being able to understand anything my friend's family was saying because they would all jovially shout at each other at dinner in the local dialect; sleeping on a bed that, while comfortable to me, was so different from my own; being careful to not step into the squatty as I showered and dumping buckets of water into it to flush it; and waking up to the smell of incense offered to the female Buddha every morning. I realized that even though I'd been here a year, I still had always had my little me-centered refuge of an apartment that I could return to at the end of the day, complete with cheese and hot chocolate and heating.

I felt a strange shyness creep over me. I began concentrating very hard on my food at meals and feeling oppressed by the unintelligible local dialect that was being shouted across the table. I began relishing times in the afternoon when I could read the very western Jane Austen and escape back to my culture and to my comfort zone, glorying that English flowed so easily in and out of my brain.

Then one day, after sitting down at another meal with tons of local people I didn't know all shouting at each other, looking desperately through the fat and organ meat for a piece of meat I wanted to eat, I walked out of the room to escape the noise and jumped out of my skin as a bazillion firecrackers went off just feet from me, followed by a whole wedding party staring at me. I ran to take refuge in the squatty potty so I could find a place where I could rest, where I knew no one was staring at me. When I got the courage to emerge, we then rode in my friend's dad's bread truck, where he bounced frighteningly fast over mountain roads and knocked the side mirror off of a fellow bread truck that was hurtling toward us at an equally dangerous speed. Then he let my friend drive and gave her a driving lesson by shouting at her constantly in the local dialect as she swerved off the road and onto the other side of the road quite a few times. This swerving caused my stomach to churn on top of everything I was feeling.

Tears started coming down before I could stop them.

I was so embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I'm supposed to be hardcore and cross-cultural, right? I'm not supposed to let my American-ness get to me. In my heart of hearts, I love the countryside here and the small towns and their precious people. In my heart of hearts, I knew her family was being nothing but gracious and hospitable to me. Even what sounded like "shouting" to my American ears was not shouting to them, but lively dinner conversation and cautious instruction from a loving father teaching his daughter to drive (and perhaps not wanting to die). They were offering the best food they could give, and incorporating me, a foreigner, into their daily lives during a very traditional festival.

I was so ashamed that they noticed, and of course they immediately began driving back home. When we got there, I escaped to my friend's room and got away with Jane Austen, tears still blurring my eyes as I tried to read. Even though my eyes were reading Victorian prose, my heart was still in Asia, searching...why was I reacting like this? I'd been in this country a year now. I thought I had outgrown all my weird discomfort over things that were not bad, just different. I felt so ungrateful, so in need of the Father's grace. I felt so ashamed because the last thing I wanted to do was hurt my friend's feelings after all the kindness she and her family had shown to me. I felt like a spoiled, selfish American brat. I told God I was sorry for failing him by failing to have constant joy and love for my friends.

And first, quietly, my friend's little brother's girlfriend walked in. She is tall and thin and soft-spoken and graceful. She has a sweet and gentle heart. You would think she'd listened to all of Beth Moore's lessons or something. But she's never heard of Beth Moore. And the only reason she's read a little of the book I read every day is because I've shown it to her.

Yet she came in and quietly put her arm around me, speaking words of comfort in both her language and mine. I kept apologizing, and she kept showing grace and love. Then my friend who originally invited me came in with a cup of tea for me, sitting down and saying, "JC says not to cry. We are your friends and we love you," and even talking to him for me, though she believes differently.

That night as we sat outside drinking oil tea, I made friends with a cute chubby little boy who wanted to practice his English, and his mom gave me all these local gifts because she was so happy her son had an English speaker to converse with. A guy close to my age who was introduced to me by my friend promptly said, "Sorry, I am shy because you are a beautiful girl!" As we all laughed, I thought to myself how we might all have a lot more dates if American guys were that blunt.

And my friend started opening up to me a lot more. Because I had been open with my ugliness and my shortcomings, she began to open up  - about how it is so difficult having divorced parents in the countryside because it is still very taboo there. How she hates the rush in your late twenties here to get married before you get "left over." How marriage should be about true love, not finances or family connections. And I shared in turn what my favorite book says about marriage, what a beautiful picture it paints. She told me the story of the female Buddha and how people in the countryside still revere her because they had nothing else to pray to during the starving times, and they felt they understood her because she had sought a life of suffering so as to identify better with the poor of the world. We talked about poverty and how Father dearly loves and fights for the poor and the sick and the starving.

On the bus ride home, as I continued to read Jane Austen, I meditated on how even when I'm ashamed of myself and feel like a failure, when I feel like a victim of the comfort I have grown up in, Father lavishes me with grace and good gifts and laughter...even, yes, even through the people I feel I've offended. And this is a grace, not that spoils me, but that refines me and helps me grow. This is a grace that gives me security and peace. It is not conditional, it is not given if I am a good girl; it is freely given that I might have the abundant life and be free to love Him in return with all of my heart. And so in the middle of my shortcomings and failures and chains to my own culture and language, my eyes turn not inward but upward and outward, to Him who gives grace and to the precious friends through whom He gives it. And so when I feel completely unlovable, I can rest in the assurance that I am still eternally loved, and I can still whisper a feeble, contrite, yet hopeful "halellujah."

Asianifications

Most days, I feel very different from most people here and stick out like a sore thumb. I'm very aware of my "American"-ness, my "other"-ness, my tallness, my left-handedness (new writing teacher drew attention to it yet again today), my ginger-ness, whatever you'd like to call it. But sometimes I laugh when I notice ways in which I've become more "Asianified" since I've been here (going on a year now...crazy)!

1. I like hot water.
You say, "Yeah, I like hot water too...it's great for showers, and boiling spaghetti." No, I mean I like drinking hot water. I really don't mind when they give it to me at restaurants and massage places. Not when it's hot outside, no, that's torture. But in the winter? YES PLEASE. And in the summer, room temperature without ice is just fine!

I teased another American lady this past winter when she said she loved sitting with a big mug of hot water in her hands and sipping it to warm up...and then 2 days later I found myself doing the same thing. Sometimes you just don't want any more caffeine for the day, or you realize you're cold AND dehydrated...so drinking hot water is the perfect solution!

2. My squatting proficiency is growing.
Don't worry, there's nothing gross about what I'm about to say. I have notoriously short Achilles tendons, even for an American. I remember when my growth spurt happened and my heels started hurting because my tendons hadn't stretched as fast as I had grown, and I had to do these special stretches everyday. I would have never had that problem if I'd grown up over here! I've noticed that little by little, my heels are able to get closer to the floor, making it much easier to balance on a squatty potty. Will they ever touch the floor, like so many people's effortlessly do? Possibly not, but I'm making progress!

3. I have actually used a parasol a couple of times.
Not too often, but some! Not because I care too much about keeping my skin "bai bai de" (trust me, that takes absolutely no effort), but because sometimes when that sun is beating down, a parasol just makes sense! (Note: my "parasol" is actually my umbrella...but it does the trick).

4. I drive like a local.
I don't honk as much as some, that's true. But I have noticed my electric bike driving is pretty assertive, and also that I pretty much never use my rear view mirrors. You say, "Becky, that's dangerous!" Over here, not really. Actually, it's safer to constantly keep your eye in front of you and to the sides and trust people behind you to adjust accordingly. People here pretty much just look in front of them, and you are expected to watch what's in front of you and honk if you're about to crash in to somebody who's in your way. They then are expected to listen to your honk and move, and if they don't move then you keep honking, and that's the way it goes. Unfortunately, this even goes for cars backing out of spaces. They often don't look behind them and just expect the oncoming electric bike traffic to stop. And stop we do, because we know somebody has to be looking.

5. I am constantly discovering new uses for chopsticks.
Seriously, who knew they could be so useful? With chopsticks, you don't need spatulas, tongs, stirring spoons, real locks on public bathroom doors, or even real plumbing equipment (kind of a joke on that last one, although friends have told me that plumbers have literally fixed their toilets with chopsticks before. And I have most definitely seen a chopstick stuck through a public toilet lock). I use chopsticks to whip my scrambled eggs, stir my coffee, flip my bacon...The uses are limitless!

6. I like tea more than coffee.
Hahahaaaaa, just kidding! I really had you there for a second, didn't I?

Although I do love both.

Probably too much.

Really enjoying that imported Starbucks Autumn Blend right now.

7. I don't accept compliments.
I was never that good at accepting compliments in the States, and people would often get on to me for it...but luckily that means I fit in well here! Here, it's more polite to disagree if someone compliments you than to say "Thank you." So if someone gives me a compliment, I usually wave my hand dismissively and say, "Oh no, I'm not good" or something along those lines.

Now, if I ever have a child and raise her over here, I will NEVER culturally adjust to saying, "Oh no, my daughter's so ugly!" or "Oh no, she's actually very stupid!" ...but that's another thing entirely. :-D

8. I make weird comments.
A couple months ago, some American friends visited and ordered dog at a restaurant so they could experience some special "local cuisine."

When I heard about this, my objection was not to the fact that they were eating dog (and donkey, by the way). Here's what I actually said:

"They're eating dog? But it's summer!"

(Note: only people who have been to this area will get that one. Dog meat is supposed to warm you up and therefore is traditionally eaten in the winter. My objection was the same one a local person would make!)

9. I most definitely had my first dream in Chinese a couple nights ago.
Although, during the whole dream I felt like I was struggling to make people understand me, and I kept having to repeat myself. Still, that counts, right?! :-D

Interestingly, this is not the first time I've noticed myself making cultural adjustments. After moving to Texas, I still remember when my "I" sound started to come out more like "ah", the moment I started liking Dr. Pepper, hearing "like white on rice" for the first time, the first time I ate brisket (and dove, and quail, and other delicious things), and the moment I began to like Mexican food other than quesadillas. I guess it's kinda true what they say about Texas being a whole other country. :) So maybe this wonderful place over here isn't so different after all!

Facedown in an Omelet

First week at UT, and there I was, facedown in an omelet.

Well, not in the omelet...I just said that because it's a much more humorous picture. Actually, my face was on the table, exactly eye-level with the ham-and-cheddar omelet, at 3 am in Kerbey Lane as I contemplated life at the beginning of freshman year with a friend I would rarely see again (what UT student hasn't had a moment like this?).

I had recently left a party, was very tired, and THAT WAS THE BEST OMELET I'D EVER TASTED!!11! I ate some pancakes too. The waiter came by and told me to get my head off the table at one point because they'd had too many students pass out in the restaurant recently.

I had just come back from a party with people I barely knew, and was now eating with people I barely knew. Everyone was someone I barely knew, including myself. I mean, a few months ago I could identify myself as a scholarship recipient, cheerleader, leader in the youth group, and Valedictorian, among other things. I'd had an identity and a history. Maybe not one I always liked, but I had one nonetheless.

And here, I was the girl who was being told to not pass out on the table.

I had recently attended Camp Texas, this magical place where everyone seemed to be smart, athletic, good-looking and confident all at once. I'd been completely overwhelmed. Most people already seemed to have a plan - a major, a country in which to study abroad, and even which sorority they would join. My first week at UT confirmed that I was constantly surrounded by smart, driven students. While I loved the new environment in which I found myself, I also let it threaten who I knew myself to be. Jesus couldn't be the same here as he was in my one-stoplight town in West Texas, could he?

I was at a crossroads. I could live for myself in college, or I could live for the God who redeemed me at the age of 13. This was a test. Was he real? Was I serious about this?

All through freshman year, I don't think I was quite sure. I had one foot in the world and one foot in the Kingdom. This was not the first or last time my life would be like this. We all have moments when we have one foot in the world and one foot in the Kingdom, one hand holding God's and the other holding money/power/people. I wanted to have everything. Jesus was not my only Pearl.

Then, I ended my first semester with a 3.4 GPA. Even though I'd been Valedictorian in one of the tiniest schools ever, I still had delusions of the unshakable awesomeness of my brain. That even at UT, I could do everything and still make the grades I wanted to make. That wasn't the case.

Don't get me wrong, a 3.4 is not awful. Having a 3.4 instead of a 4.0 is definitely a "first world" problem (as many girls don't even get to go to school), but at the time, being the product of the first-world system and the middle-class family that I was, I felt like my world was shattering. My identity was gone. I wasn't the best. I wasn't even close. I was one of 50,000 students who had all been at least the top 10% in their high schools, and I was competing against them. Sure, I was in an honors program, but so were many others...some who had already started their own nonprofits that cured AIDS and written a Tony award-winning play about it (maybe slightly exaggerating there).

And then my idolatry smacked me in the face. In high school, I had grown to love Jesus. But I still wanted to love the things of this world. I wanted to be the Christian girl, the beloved girl, the smart girl, the successful girl, and the creative girl. The blow to my pride in the form of a 3.4 GPA was almost more than I could take, as pathetic as that sounds. The kind of girl I wanted to be was not the kind of girl who had a 3.4. She was the girl who had a 4.0, yet somehow managed to still be the lead in a play, a leader in a Christian organization, an intramural sports player, obtain a coveted internship, learn a foreign language, and study abroad...perhaps even obtain a perfect boyfriend while doing so.

When all this did not just magically happen, I needed to reevaluate who I was. Who I wanted to be. In a one-stoplight town, there are seemingly only so many choices, but in a big, diverse city like Austin, you can be whoever you want. The possibilities are endless, and you can always find people to agree with you. You have to throw the sand away and choose your pearl.

If this were your typical "success" story, I would say it was all an uphill trajectory from there. That I chose to be a follower of Christ and stuck with it. That I got my head in the game, as Zac Efron would say in High School Musical 3, and never got out of it. By God's grace, my GPA got much better, it's true; I whittled down the things that were good and focused on things that were best; Father blessed me with brothers and sisters who walked beside me through good and bad.

But the truth is, even now at any moment I know I am just a change, a mood swing and a bad choice away from being facedown in an omelet. There were still awkward moments after that, over omelets or pancakes or other late-night fare. There were entire months when I genuinely believed God didn't want me to be happy or care about me. There were times when I got angry at people who had been nothing but good to me, when I had thoughts that I'd be ashamed to tell even the devil, when I let my joy succumb to worry. When I found out I would officially be going overseas for 2 years, my first reaction after the momentary rejoicing was to cry my eyes out. Fear gripped my heart, I'm ashamed to say, more strongly than the love and faithfulness of my Savior.

And so often, it still does. I constantly struggle to love the people I should love easily. I'm faced with the prospect of yet more dear friends leaving our city, after saying goodbye to so many local friends going off to college. I'm faced with the prospect of nothing being the same when I get back home in a year, the uncertainty of where I will live and who will be there for me. That all-too-familiar demon of loneliness always hovers close at hand, never quite vanquished and always ready to pounce. That fear of being alone for the rest of my life, of never having permanent community, of always bouncing around without clear direction or purpose or guidance. There's that too.

My point in saying all this is: I haven't arrived. You haven't either. I know that every day I'm growing more and more, growing in freedom and love and peace. But we've never arrived until we cross over that river and possess the kingdom prepared for us since the creation of the world. As long as we are here, we are sojourners. There is no destination here, only the journey. Here, we travel, we grow, we struggle, we sin, we love, we forgive, we taste and experience the kingdom we have not yet fully known or possessed, and sometimes we pass out in omelets. And the minute we think we have sufficiently distanced ourselves from that omelet is the minute we slip on a giant one that just happens to be frying on the sidewalk. And we think we've made a big fat gooey mess of our lives.

Thankfully, Jesus has an even bigger spatula.

Drowning.

I love fun outdoors things like hiking, canoeing, etc. And I love thrilling things like roller coasters. So Saturday I went whitewater rafting, for the second time over here. A perfect fit for me.

I knew what to expect, I'd done this before, they gave us life jackets (albeit paper-thin) and helmets. Over here, they have two people to a boat facing each other, rather than a long boat with everyone facing forward, so I climbed in one with my friend Olivia because we'd done this together before. It was sunny, the water was blue, the mountains were green, and it was going to be wonderful.

And it was - for a few seconds. Until our boat hit a rock in such a way that it flipped over. After my first task was accomplished, which was to get out from under the boat, I hardly knew what was happening, only that I kept coming up for air only to get sucked back under, that I couldn't hear or see anything but the rushing water above and all around me, that I kept being buffeted against rocks again and again as I struggled, trying to hold onto something but finding myself weak against the current, my backside and my knees and elbow hitting rocks again and again.

Then I felt Olivia's hand grab mine. We were still being swept along by the current, but there was so much comfort in that one gesture. I'd had no idea where she was and didn't know how she'd found me, but in that one second I knew that I at least wasn't going through this alone. Others tried to help us, but we kept getting swept along, until finally the rapids ended and gave way to calm water, and we were able to climb together into a friend's boat. No idea what had happened to our boat, or Olivia's shoes.

It's incredible that it was over so fast and yet was so terrifying. The combination of the mental and physical stress, along with losing some blood and being pretty nicely bruised, meant that we were absolutely exhausted. Olivia told me she didn't know if she could have breathed much longer if we hadn't gotten help when we did. I was shaking from exhaustion when I hoisted myself into the boat.

As I had been flailing helplessly in the water, my thoughts had turned panicky and morbid. I thought of how I'd Skyped with Mom in the morning, and how I'd told her I'd be doing this, and how I didn't want that to be my last conversation with her. I thought I heard people yelling or something but couldn't tell where they were or reach them. There were those moments when the water wouldn't allow me to come up for air when I wanted, and I'd remember hearing that drowning was the worst way to die. Of course I was crying out to Father in my head, and once or twice out loud when I would surface. I knew he saw me but was wondering when he would come to my rescue, or if he would come to my rescue. I was thinking I wasn't ready to "go home" yet, at least not like this.

Though it might seem silly because we ended up being all right in the end, without even a broken bone or concussion (praise the Lord), the incident really left us thinking afterward. I remember Olivia saying she felt like she should have been much more calm than she was, entrusting her life to Father rather than panicking or worrying.

I thought a lot too, about how that is exactly how I react when I feel like I'm drowning in life. When I don't know what the outcome of a situation will be, whether things will be good or bad, and I freeze in my fear. In that time I'm certain that the Lord has forgotten me, that he has lied about having a good plan for me. I remember afterward to trust in God, but in that moment, in the pain and struggle, I find it so difficult to do so. I immediately feel that I have been forsaken before I have even seen things through to the end, before I have let him show me how he works all things together for good.

Another thing, too, was that in that moment, in the rapids, I felt that they would never end. I completely forgot the view from above. Before rafting, when I had viewed them from the top of a hill, I'd seen that the rapids had a starting and ending point, and then calm waters from there on out. But in that moment, in my mind, the rapids would never end unless I fought them. I couldn't relax, let my body be a ragdoll as I hear you're supposed to do, and trust that I would get air when I needed and get to calm waters at just the right time, that the rapids' speed would work in my favor and eventually carry me to safety. I couldn't see anything but the turbulence that was surrounding me, and it greatly affected my perspective. This again is how I treat the "rapids" of my life. Just because I can't see the ending point from my perspective, I think they must not have an ending point. When I think this way, I exalt my perspective above God's. I don't trust him to lead me to calm waters at just the right time, when the refining is over and he has taught me what he wants to teach me for the time being.

Once I was out of the water, back on dry land and looking down, I saw a very clear ending point. I thought that if I had just been able to see that ending point when I was thrashing around, my thoughts might have been far less panicked, and I'd have been much calmer.

I'm reading the prophets right now, and one thing I am learning is that all physical experiences have some spiritual meaning. For instance, God tells Jeremiah to bear a yoke to symbolize the yoke of oppression on Israel as they are ruled by Babylon. He tells Ezekiel to eat defiled bread to show how the people had defiled themselves before the Holy God. I think he still works this way. I think Father allowed this to happen to me so that I would have a powerful, strong reminder emblazoned forever in my memory of how to deal with trials when they come. How to have hope and faith in the midst of them.

I hope and pray that next time I encounter rapids in my life, my mind drifts to the view from above rather than the rushing water around me.

"Dad in China"

Most people get their dad a tie or maybe a shirt or some novelty item for his birthday.

I, on the other hand, make comics! I thought it would be funny to imagine my dad in various situations in China.

Note in advance: Not everything in the comic applies *everywhere* in China or any other part of East Asia (I'm pretty sure nothing applies everywhere in such a large, diverse place), but it draws from my personal experience in a smaller city. I hope it makes you smile. :)

Click on the image to see it!

"I am Eighty-Two Years Old!"

Yesterday I met a beautiful woman.

We were walking around a park, witnessing the creation both of the Father and of His "sub-creators," as J.R.R. Tolkien would say. 

We loved watching the mothers strolling around with their babies while the elderly, behatted, sometimes bespectacled people sat around stone tables, chatting and playing games.

In one gazebo, we saw yet another group of sweet elderly people. But one of them, rather than staring or even smiling, actually beckoned us to come over. The wrinkles deepened in the corners of her eyes as she waved her fragile yet strong hands.

As we walked in, she and her friends began laughing; she jumped up and down and clapped her hands for joy. Her friends gathered round to take pictures with us, but she was interested in more than that.

She wanted to dance.

So she grabbed my friend's hand and began twirling herself around, laughing the whole time. She then skipped over to another friend, and then another, grabbing each person's hands and twirling.

When she would stop to take a picture with one of us, she would wrap her wrinkled arms around our unwrinkled faces, deepening her own wrinkles with even more laughter.

And then, as I began conversing with her, she clapped and jumped up and down as she said, 

"I am eighty-two years old!"

Her friends laughed and commented on how happy she was; I commented on how healthy she was. She couldn't care less about our comments, regardless of their content. She was too busy dancing.

When I turn eighty-two years old, I want to look back on eighty-two years of softening and enlarging my heart, of keeping it open to my Creator and to all people but closed to cynicism, of keeping it open to thankfulness and grace but closed to self-pity. I want to laugh and clap.

I want to be too busy dancing.

This week, a high school girl killed herself.

I'm sure many high school girls and other precious people around the world found it too difficult to live this week, but this girl killed herself in my city, at a high school just a few bus stops away. It's always that much more difficult when something like that happens close to us, even if we didn't know the person.

I've been to that high school before, walked around it with my friend Jane. It's supposed to be the best high school in the city. To me it looks more like a university than a high school, with its huge campus boasting multi-story buildings and dorms. Here, it is not uncommon for high school students to live away from home.

I asked my friend why the girl did it. Was it being away from her parents? Was it the heavy work load? I always comment on how hard my high school friends have to work, how they never seem to have a moment to themselves. And right now is crunch time, the worst of exam season. It would make sense. It's happened before.

But that wasn't the reason, apparently. School officials read her journal.

She liked girls.

I may be on the other side of the world, but I'm still keeping up with what's happening in the States. And if it's difficult to be gay or lesbian in the States, I know it must be difficult over here, where it's relatively under the radar and few people are discussing or acknowledging it.

Regardless of what we think about the propriety of men liking men or women liking women, this should never have to occur. No one should ever feel that trapped. It's not about the fact that she liked girls so much as the fact that she did not feel free to bare her soul, with its changes and struggles.

In order to be trapped, a person must first box herself in. She must burrow deep into a hole where she thinks no one can hurt her. She must hide. But what happens when her hiding place becomes her prison? When the choice to hide herself is no longer her own, but the choice of someone fixing a stone door over her cave? Telling her she can never come out, that no one wants to see her as she truly is? The damp earth becomes suffocating, even to the point of death.

We refuse to show ourselves to those around us. We refuse to admit the darkness, the doubt, that constantly lurks underneath our smiling faces. And because we hide our own darkness, our differences, we encourage others to hide theirs. Because we are afraid, we project fear onto others. And so, one by one, we all burrow into our caves. Until everyday conversation is a strain, because no one is truly revealing themselves anymore.

I wish someone had told that girl that she could reveal herself, in all her mess and magnificence. That she had known, deep down, that she would be unconditionally loved. That as she worked through the turbulence of adolescence, she would have had that blessed assurance of a hand that will never let her go.

But a person who must hide herself every waking second is lost in every sense of the word.

C.S. Lewis writes that being truly "saved" does not entail the cancellation of sin and shame but rather the willingness to bear it to the world, pointing to God's grace all the while and trusting Him alone to cover it.

"As for the fact of sin, is it probable that anything cancels it? All times are eternally present to God. Is it not at least possible that along some one line of His multi-dimensional eternity He sees you forever in the nursery pulling the wings off a fly, forever toadying, lying and lusting as a schoolboy, forever in that moment of cowardice or insolence as a subaltern? It may be that salvation consists not in the cancelling of these eternal moments but in the perfected humanity that bears the shame forever, rejoicing in the occasion which it furnished to God's compassion and glad that it should be common knowledge to the universe" (The Problem of Pain).

It's as though the Free are dancing around naked, not because they are stainless and pure but because they are covered by something other than clothes, something other than what the world gives to mask shame. All of the messiness and grit is out in the open, but we refuse to be humiliated. Yes, we will continue to boast in our weaknesses, proclaim our failings from the rooftops, air our stubbornness and our stupidity and our different-ness, laughing all the while and feeling completely unashamed, because of the One who eternally covers us, molds us, and will never abandon his creations. Our hidden things out in the open are all to His glory.

I long for and dream of a world in which no one feels so trapped that death seems to be the only way out. Where no one wants to shrink to the point of oblivion. But those who do not know Love cannot come out of their caves, because they have never known the One who is completely loving, completely trustworthy, and completely unfailing. No one has ever shown them that such love exists. Therefore, to be out in the open means to be torn apart. And so these precious souls wither, souls who never had the chance to hear about grace.

Finally, speaking of Heaven and the Kingdom, Lewis writes,

"...Perhaps the lost are those who dare not go to such a public place."

They would, if they knew the public place was also the place of grace.

Adventure with Eggplant

Eggplant. An egg that grows on a plant. A plant that lays eggs.

No?

Well, does it at least look like an egg?

It's bright purple.

Bright purple...so maybe an Easter egg?

Except it's long and skinny, at least over here. And even in the States it's more squash-shaped.

Oh well, who cares why it's called eggplant? Actually, it's quite pretty. In a world where things don't rot, I would add some to my Christmas tree hulu garland. It's delicious too. Eggplant is one of our favorite things to eat over here, and I eat it almost everyday. One of my absolute favorite dishes is one that has ground pork or beef and eggplant over rice. Mmm-mmm-mmm.

So the other day, I bought two for about 30 cents and decided to cook it for the first time! I actually made an Indian dish - eggplant curry. Not entirely authentic because I don't have garam masala, but it turned out pretty delish, and I had the satisfaction of knowing everything in there was good for me! I even made my own fresh ginger-garlic paste (note: DO NOT touch that stuff with your bare fingers, you will be smelling it for hours even after washing them). If you want the recipe, look up eggplant curry on allrecipes.com and it should come up. I was really proud that it was edible because it was my first time to cook eggplant and also my first time to cook Indian (unless you count rajmah, which is basically like chili, just with Indian spices...that's some good stuff too).

Here's a picture of the final product.

Depending on how much you like Indian food, that may or may not look appetizing to you, but it was a pretty good lunch! Eggplant: conquered. Now that we have obtained chili-garlic sauce and oyster sauce, my next eggplant attempt will be our favorite local ground-pork-eggplant dish. Yay!

Discovering My Own Culture

I remember being in Japan a few years ago and having many hilarious stories of cultural mishaps by the end of the summer. There was that time I walked into a dressing room with my shoes on, another time when I wore the bathroom shoes out in the rest of the house, and that other time when my best friend had to put on a huge baggy t-shirt in the bathhouse because she had tattoos.

I remember often thinking, "Gee, I'm glad America doesn't have a whole lot of rules for politeness. I'm glad we're a 'low-context' culture." We are low-context, indeed, once you're IN that context. However, now that I'm living overseas in a vastly different culture, I am realizing that we DO have many standards of politeness and cultural "do's" and "don't"s. Being the American that I am, I had just considered them "common sense" before.

Living in another country, I have made a lot of adjustments to my behavior and responses to things, and I've tried my best to become what I need to become. But if someone over here were to ask me what's appropriate to do in American culture, these would be some of my "rules" for interacting with an American (or, who knows, perhaps just this American):

Rules for Interacting with Americans 

1.) Don't ask how much we paid for something. Now this rule needs some qualifications. I remember close friends asking how much I paid for my apartment in west campus, just so they could figure out where they wanted to live and scope out the price ranges. But here, the conversation goes something more like this:

"How much do you pay for your apartment?"
(Depending on my mood, I might say "not too much" and change the subject, or if I'm feeling just really dumb, I might actually tell them. One of three reactions follows)
a.) Ohhh, that is much too expensive.
b.) With furniture included? (No.) Ohhh, you pay too much.
c.) ...For a year? (No.) A MONTH?! Ohhhh, you pay too much.

Not to mention, this might not be from a close friend; this might be from a guy I've just met.

So, judging by my own inner reactions (don't worry, outwardly I'm polite, if perhaps a little short), I think that in the States it is more appropriate to not comment, or to say "What a good deal!" You're probably safest if you just don't ask in the first place and say something more like, "What a lovely apartment!" and just leave it at that.

2.) Precisely define the time you plan to come over.

When dealing with an American, it's usually not polite to say, "I will come over sometime Sunday," but never say the time. Then, it's really not polite to send them a text message at 7 p.m. saying, "Where are you? I am at your apartment!" because they might be, oh I don't know, at a restaurant? Usually just saying the day you will come over, without the time, is not acceptable...especially if you want them to actually be there when you arrive at the door. Also, it's not a good idea to randomly show up at 10 p.m. with a bunch of friends they don't know. Americans like their schedules...and their privacy.

3.) Allow us to use our left hand.

So first of all, I think this definitely stems from a deeper cultural difference. In the United States, we focus on allowing someone to be the individual they were born to be. So if someone begins to use their left hand from an early age, we encourage it. However, over here, the emphasis is on what is convenient for the group as a whole. What is convenient is to have everyone write right-handed from an early age. This way, there is no need for left-handed desks, scissors, or elbow-bumping at the table. Supposedly this also allows for more uniform writing. 

Anyway, here are some actual responses I have had when people find out I am left-handed:

a.) You use chopsticks/write with your LEFT hand! (exclamation and shock)

b.) You must be very clever! (So if lefties are clever, why do you make us change?)

c.) You cannot write characters with your left hand! You will never be able to write them correctly!

d.) *Takes pen out of my hand as though I am five years old and puts it in my right hand and forces me to write characters that way*

e.) Why are so many westerners left-handed?

I have made many left-handed friends here, surprisingly. I mean, none of them use their left hand to write, but a few have told me that they started out writing with their left hand before they had to change. I was playing tennis the other day and talking with my doubles partner to figure out which side we would each be on. When I told him I was left-handed, I assumed that would settle the question, but he promptly said, "Me too!" Good for him, keeping his left-handedness intact, even if only in sports. He must be very clever!

I will probably think of more later, so I'm sure there will be a Part 2 to this. I would love to hear about any things you've discovered about your own culture through being in another one!

A New Year

Wow, it's a new year.

The rest of you may think, Becky, that happened a month ago! Why are you just now doing your New Year's reflections?

Well, I'm in a place where the Lunar New Year is a bigger deal than the Solar, so I'm aligning my reflecting accordingly.

It was hard being by myself. Yet I praise God for teaching me through that time that I CAN live by myself, that He really IS enough, that I really am enough. If I live by myself in the future when I go back to the United States, Father has taught me that I can handle it and even love it. I learned to truly enjoy "nesting" and making a place my own.

Now that I have a dear friend here living with me and sharing experiences with me, I want to learn to appreciate and love her the way Jesus does. I'm not very good at loving, and I naturally think of myself more than others. But what am I if I have not love? Nothing else matters. Living by myself, I had to learn to love myself and even enjoy myself better. Now living with another person again, I am journeying through learning more submission, satisfaction, and selfless love.

Not to mention learning where a particularly delightful gelato place is that is run by a man who studied in Canada and New York and speaks excellent English! Discovering this shop provided an excellent sense of continuity as it's the same kind of place I would patronize in Austin. A local business, started by someone with a creative, entrepreneurial spirit.

No real reflection here, this is just our apartment complex two nights ago on New Year's Eve. This is just one of the many firecrackers...the lit-up stairwells you can see to the right also have flashing firecrackers, and the sky to the top left has fireworks. It really sounded like a war zone!

Some kids up on the roof of our apartment doing their own firecrackers. Later that night we also went out with friends to shoot off fireworks. While it was fun to hang out with the local people and do what they do, it was also challenging because we were outside from midnight to 2 am and it was bitterly cold. (That's right, we were THOSE guys who are still shooting off fireworks 2 hours after New Year's). Rachel and I enjoyed the sparklers but were not brave enough to actually shoot off any fireworks. :-) We were very happy to get back home, eat some peanut butter crackers and drink hot chocolate with the heater on, and watch a Friends episode before bed!

This year, I want to be a swinger of birches (er...vines?) like the Robert Frost poem. I'm so often caught up in pride and controlling things, and wanting to measure up and be counted adequate and worthy. I would really rather just enjoy and trust Father like a child, and not worry about what people think about me and what I'm doing.

Climbed a mountain (well, hill, really, but still good exercise!) on New Year's Day. I think that's supposed to be good luck or something. Anyway, I don't want to think of any mountains as insurmountable, because of the power that works within me. There are so many challenges looming ahead in my time here and I feel like I'm on a time crunch, and I keep wondering what will happen if my dreams don't come true, if I will look like a failure or if I will not be someone to look up to. The way I've been thinking constantly centers on me, yet I don't want to focus on my power but on His. As I'm reading through the Old Testament about Father refusing to fight for the people unless it was through crazy ways like marching around a city with trumpet-blowing, or only taking 300 men who lapped water like dogs and sending the rest home, I'm reminded that He still works like this. If I shine, He will not receive the glory. He must become greater, I must become less.

The fireworks show downtown last night! We didn't dare brave the crowds to try to get to where they were actually fired, but we walked to a bridge relatively close to our apartment and had a great view from there.

According to a friend, the city spends millions of the local currency on this fireworks show every year.

It was like the 4th of July in winter!

Some of the crowd that gathered to watch the display

Nothing to do with New Year's, but i'd never seen this little park before and thought it was so cool! There's even a little bridge where you can walk over part of the waterfall.

My last two thoughts. Here is a song that really spoke to me recently and that I want to be a sort of motto for my life:

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the death of Christ my God.
All the vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to His blood.

See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Were the whole realm of nature mine, 
That were an offering far too small.
Love so amazing, so divine
Demands my soul, my life, my all. 

Somehow, this song reminded me of how desperately I need to know him. I already know Him in the sense of salvation, but now and then I encounter someone, like this little girl  http://www.godvine.com/12-Year-Old-Prodigy-Paints-her-Visions-of-Heaven-43.html who talks about him like an old friend. I mean, whose eyes seem to go far away, and a smile crinkles their mouth, as they think of memories with him, fights with him, moments of incredible closeness and awe. Someone who laughs when they think about him, cries when they think about him. This is the kind of closeness I want. I think I'm on the way, but I haven't yet reached it. I feel that if I do, life will be so natural. I will talk to him expecting Him to speak back. I will seek more earnestly for answers because I will have more faith that they are coming. I will live with more certainty as I hear his voice affirming that I am exactly where He wants me. I will never feel alone.

So I look forward to another year of enjoying His presence, His teaching, His blessings, and His revelation.

The Least of These

"Again this Christmas babies will be born in ramshackle homes. Herod will not try to kill them, but their drinking water will. Again Jesus will turn our hearts to children. We who still hear angels will journey to see Christ in the least of these. Our camels traded for drill rigs, we will bear the gift of life: clean drinking water, offered in Jesus’ name. Mothers will treasure these things in their hearts. This is full worship."

- Living Water International's Advent Conspiracy

Beautiful paragraph. Since I'm not building a well, I'm trying to figure out what full worship looks like for me this season and always. Who are my "least of these"? I can always give money, but how can I give of myself? This is what I am pondering. Right towards the end of my time in Austin, I began talking with homeless people more and seeking them out. Not necessarily by giving money, but by giving my time. Listening to them. Seeking to understand them.

Now I find myself in a place in which I cannot communicate with the homeless people. I am surrounded by "the least of these," at least compared to American standards - people who live in garages, people without water heaters or space heaters, people who wear the same clothes almost everyday, homeless people, mentally ill people who have not received proper care. But they can't even speak the national language correctly, much less English. So I wonder, how on earth can I show love to them?

I saw this man on a street downtown the other day. I was actually a little scared. Here's the thing: we romanticize giving to the least of these. We like to think everyone who is poor is sweet and grateful and just such a wonderful person if only we knew them. But some of them aren't. A lot of them are mentally ill, or they don't trust anyone and will steal from you because that's all they know how to do, or they are not good-looking, or they smell bad.

I think this man downtown was mentally ill. As I stood there struggling inwardly as this man sang loudly off-key with a bucket full of money in front of him while a crowd gathered round, I thought, I wish I were Paul. I wish I were Peter. If I were, I could go up to him, lay hands on him and say "Be healed" or "Come out of him" in Jesus' name and immediately he would get up, the hair would stop growing in funny places, and he would be sane. Of course, I know the same power that lived in them lives in me, but I often don't really believe that in my heart.

This is just one example of the many times I have struggled with how to love the least of these. I don't really have any solution or resolution to this, but it's something I continue to pray and seek Father about. Not that these two acts are unimportant, but are praying and giving money really all I can do? Is that what people in Acts did? Is that what Father has called me to do?

It's humbling to realize that, to many people here, I could be considered one of "the least of these." I am an alien. I don't speak the language well yet. As much as I've learned about the culture, I'm still pretty ignorant. I need help from a friend with something as simple as exchanging something at a store or taking a trip to the police station.

And this is when I realize that, as sinful people, as sheep without a shepherd (or sheep who know the Shepherd but often struggle to follow him), we are all the least of these. We in our pride like to think that "the least of these" are always other people - the starving children, or the mentally ill homeless men - but I don't think we can even begin to relate to them or understand them this season unless we recognize our own poverty before Father. I am no one's savior; I am the one in need of rescuing, the one in need of help, the one in need of mercy, time and time again.

Hulu Mian

So a couple weekends ago, I went fruit-and-vegetable picking. See my awesome hat:

I had lots of fun. Got tons of little oranges, some starfruit, cilantro, peanuts, a pumpkin...

and a calabash. Also known as a hulu, or a bottle gourd.

Wait, what?

I know.

Here's what they look like. Totally awesome, right? One of the farmers cuts one off the vine before I can say anything. I'm like the proverbial LOLCat: "I has a gourd...what I do wif it?"

My first thought was, I wish I had a vine of miniatures to string around my Christmas tree.

Then I considered turning Rastafarian when I discovered they often make bottles or instruments out of the calabash...until I realized it takes more than 6 months to dry one out. Not worth it.

So finally I decided to cook it. I found a very imprecise recipe for hulu mian, or calabash noodle soup. I thought, well, this sounds good. So I gathered all the ingredients and began to carve:

As you can see, it was a bit...stubborn. My poor little knife was not up to the task. Think how difficult it would be to carve and scoop out a pumpkin if it was not nice and round and open. That's how this was.

BRAAAAAAAAAINS

The smell, taste and texture were a lot like a potato. Tons of seeds in the middle like a pumpkin though! I didn't taste it raw because these are sometimes toxic when uncooked.

So basically I scooped out the gourd (which took FOREVER) and cut it into small strips, mixed some pork, soy sauce, corn starch, and chicken broth together and made some noodles, and this was the result:

Not bad! Nice on a cold day. But WAY too much trouble. It's much easier to just use a good old potato. Fun adventure though!

*Note: This is not about to become a cooking blog, but I thought this would be an interesting experience to share. Haha!

The Beloved Jester

Almost 2 months ago tonight, I wrote this in my journal:

Lord, I felt so beautiful before You tonight. So fearless. Not because of anything I've done, but because of Your abounding love. I stand in reverence of You. When I went in from playing sports, I was sweaty, my hair was flying everywhere, and my feet were filthy, but all I could think of was "How beautiful are the feet." How beautiful are my feet to You.

And as all of us expressed our love to You together, not because it was some formal service we'd prepared for, not because we were supposed to, but because we wanted to, because we came just as we are...I felt that we were truly the Body. It wasn't about how we were playing or singing, it wasn't about how we looked or even acted, it was about You. Your joy, Your peace, Your fatherhood, Your promises, Your Spirit.

Now, tonight, I am a world away from that place, and yet I'm not.

I'm still with Him.

And I felt His goodness all day today. As I rode my bike to the market, I rejoiced that the sun was out, yet the air was cool. I watched the fruit sellers ride slowly down the road, grinning at me and towing what must be 1,000 fresh oranges, or 50 stalks of sugarcane, behind them in a wooden cart. I loved seeing the stalls softened with knitted hats, scarves and shoes that were probably made by the women who sell them, and seeing a woman seated there and knitting something else, needles in hand and baby on lap. I bought a welcome mat with apples on it, and I bought a couple of jars from that lady I always buy jars from. I smiled at the random "hello!"s that followed me as I passed, and I felt like I was home.

A friend from the university walked me home tonight after English Corner to make sure I was safe, but I don't think I would have felt alone anyway.

And it's not because I'm over culture shock, or because I'm getting used to things, or anything having to do with me, really.

It's because of One who walks with me. Sometimes I don't feel Him there because I don't allow myself to be completely broken and open at his feet. But when I admit that I am nothing, that I can do nothing, that I don't have anything He hasn't given me, and that I will give up everything that I might gain Him...it's then that my cup overflows. My love for people does not come from me; it comes from Him. My love for life does not come from me; it comes from Him. My love for Him doesn't even come from me, but from Him.

Last night, I sang to Him by myself with just as full a heart as I did two months ago with brothers and sisters. I humbled myself before Him and before the people around me. I realized that it's not about me looking competent; in fact, it's about me looking completely foolish. If He is the King, then I am the court jester, living only to please him even if I look foolish to everyone else, unworthy to even lay at His feet.

But then He tenderly washes mine and calls them beautiful.

Other Moments

I enjoy sharing funny and inspiring stories about living in a foreign country. They're fun to tell, and more importantly, fun to live.

But then there are other moments.

I've been struggling a little bit lately with all the new things here. Things I'm not used to. I usually have an adventurous spirit and I'm always up for trying new things and being uncomfortable, but I will admit I actually struggle to leave the apartment at times.

First of all, I'm living by myself. Walking to class by myself. Sometimes eating by myself off in a dark corner of campus, just to get a moment of not being stared at, pointed at, or laughed at. Even babies in strollers have pointed at me, mouths gaping, because they recognize that I'm "different."

I feel so helpless. I have to go to multiple stores around town just to get basic sandwich fixings. Currently my refrigerator contains 1 kiwi, 1 half avocado, some ham, cheese, and a couple of uncooked eggs. And then when I do cook those eggs, I must do it on a gas stove...and I still haven't figured out how to hard-boil them just right. Also, I'd never had to peel two completely black layers off a grilled cheese sandwich until recently.

You know, the last time I came here, it was with 6 other crazy Americans. We stood out together, made cultural and language mistakes together, and tried new things together.

It's much different doing it by yourself.

How humbling is it when you can't even say what kind of meat you want in your dumplings? How frustrating it is when you know you've already learned the word, but of course you can't think of it in just the moment you need it. And then when I manage to stammer out a few awkward phrases in the language and I'm hoping to be told "good job," instead I am immediately corrected at such a fast pace that I can't understand a word they are saying.

I know I should just sit with random people at lunch, make goofy mistakes, and laugh at myself. But sometimes, that's much easier said than done.

Sometimes, I just want to speak English.
Sometimes, I just want for no one to stare at me like I just stepped out of a UFO.
Sometimes, I just wish I was back in Austin with that Starbucks right down the street.
Sometimes, I just want to not be humbled constantly.

And then I walk the 35 minutes back to the apartment, by myself, fighting back tears and secretly hating the loud honking cars and pedestrian-homing-missile bicycles that I have to dodge just to get across the road, with a bag of dumplings in one hand and a bilingual dictionary in the other, and fling my stuff down and cry and pray and sing out to the One who fully understands English, who would even understand nonsense words were I to utter them.

In some moments, that's the best you can do.

A Different Answer

Saturday night, I was swarmed by countless eager little faces, all being pushed forward by proud mothers to speak to the foreigner and show off their newly-acquired English skills.

That's right, I visited an English Corner downtown. It's rare that they have a "real foreigner" in the mix; they usually just practice English with each other. So I received tons of questions:

"Do you have an iPhone? an iPad?"
"Have you seen Transformers?" "...Why not?"
"Do you like to play sport? What is your favorite?"
"Do you like the food here?"
"Can I have your phone number?"
"What do you think of the protests on Wall Street?" (okay, I was a little taken aback by that one)

and finally...

"What is your favorite festival? Christmas, right, because you are a Christian?"
"What do you do on Christmas?"

Well, we open presents, eat, maybe drink hot chocolate, spend time with family....

"How do Christians celebrate Christmas?

Uhhh...the same, except we might go to church and pray before we eat our meal.


Right then, I wished I could give a different answer and still be honest.


[AC] Promo 2011 from Advent Conspiracy on Vimeo.

up, up, and away.

Hey everyone. So that Asia place I said I would be heading to? That time is finally here. I even have an early Chinese birthday cake to prove it (my real birthday is October 21st). My first plane leaves in about 5 hours. From there it's a 25-hour adventure through 4 total airports, on 3 total planes. By myself. Woohoo!

But you know, as I remain wide awake when I should be asleep (well, on American time at least...it's just after lunchtime where I'm headed!), even in the middle of the excitement I feel a total peace and calm. It's not because I'm a superhuman, and it's not because I'm sure everything will work out just fine when I'm traveling tomorrow or when I'm actually over there. I might arrive before my luggage, I might miss a plane, I might be practically violated when they're searching me at customs. And I might experience some intense culture shock. But I know Who I'm following. Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Wherever I am, He is my home, and I take all my peace and comfort from that.

It's not that this transition doesn't feel a little weird, it's not that it isn't super hard to leave family and friends, it's not that I don't have questions about how my life will look or how I will change the next couple of years, and it's not that I don't have questions about what on EARTH to do when these two years are over. But none of that really matters. Many of us say we believe God has a plan for us, but I'm determined to not just say it but actually believe it. As I spend time in sweet, sweet prayer with Him, I'm just reassured all the time that my gentle, loving Heavenly Father has planned my steps, and He walks before me and behind me. What do I have to fear?

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight."

He's not up in the air, directing me to turn this way and then that. He's down here in the dirt, working beside me, behind me, and before me in the trenches, fashioning the paths himself...and all his handiwork is marvelous. That my soul knows well.

So, Blogger is having some issues right now and apparently some people aren't able to comment on my posts. I'm tempted to go ahead and migrate to WordPress, but I'll hang around for a bit and see if they get it fixed first. If you would like to contact me, please email me at becky@tundrius.com. I would love to hear from you.