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."

Thoughts on Womanhood

I was a little girl who loved reading - anything she could get her hands on.

From the Bible - even things in the Old Testament that I "wasn't supposed" to read yet (Hey Mom, do you know what's in Genesis 19? Well, if you don't remember, then I'M not going to tell you)...

To history and science magazines like Kids Discover and National Geographic World...

To fiction like Goosebumps and Harry Potter...

To poetry like Shel Silverstein...

and everything in between.

I was a little girl who loved to WRITE.

I would write stories about ducks and aliens and princesses (usually not all at the same time),
poems about nosy neighbors, and endangered species, and towels that became epically-proportioned monsters because no one cleaned them.

I wrote plays, I wrote songs and even composed them on the piano, I designed video games with just notebook paper, with multiple levels and various monsters and bosses to defeat.

Then I began to be told that these things weren't enough.

It wasn't enough to create, to be comfortable in myself as God's creation.
I wasn't supposed to write fanciful stories or dream up video games in my spare time.

I watched MTV and saw women being valued only for their bodies.
I watched much of Christianity and saw women being valued only for their servitude.
I watched at school and saw girls being valued only for their powers of manipulation and exclusion.

so how was I to fight back?

with intellect, right?

No one could value me for only my body if my conversation was good enough. No one could value me for only my servitude if my ideas were good enough. No one could value me just for my popularity (or devalue me for the lack thereof) if I had really good grades.

I became angry and defiant, perhaps not always on the outside but on the inside.

I became prideful.

And I deceived myself by thinking these things were virtues.

The problem was, though, that I found that whatever other virtues I possessed (intellect, good conversation, hard work),
people could still dismiss me if they wanted to.
People could still treat me like just a body, "just a girl," or something else to be written off.
There is no way to safeguard against dismissal.
Or rejection.
Or humiliation.

But I tried, oh, I tried.

I dreamed of being something important, something that couldn't be dismissed
like a lawyer
or a professor
somebody important
an inspiration for other women
and someone all men would respect

I worked hard. I overcommitted myself. I strived, I strived, I strived.

I was not interested in a family
or kids
or being thought of as anything like a "homemaker"

Then my heart began to change.

Now before you think I did a complete 180...
I'm single
I'm just as curious about the world as I ever was
I love "weird" people, the ones who don't quite fit the mold they're assigned, who don't quite say or do what they're "supposed" to
I thirst for knowledge of all kinds
Faith, philosophy, science, history
and most of all

the knowledge of the Most High.

But as I began to let go of my anger
my defiance
my pride
and began to give it to God
to receive his freedom
his lightness
to spend time with these women I used to think I never wanted to emulate -
[devoted wives
moms
homemakers]
I began seeing something.
I used to imagine that all these women were held back,
that they had settled for something less.

But instead I met women who were kind, wise, discerning, patient -
role models,
inspirations for other women,
respected by any man whose respect was worth having.

I began to be estranged from my previously-held ideas that women needed to fight, to be assertive, take no prisoners
because, oddly enough,
I began to realize that there is more fight in a discerning woman than an aggressive one
more resolve in a patient woman than in a selfishly ambitious one
more passion in a caring woman than a detached woman
more confidence in a selfless woman than a narcissistic woman
more beauty in a wise woman than a seductive woman

and as I met women who showed respect to their husbands and the utmost love to their children, and constantly welcomed guests into their homes,
or treated their small groups as their children, took international students under their wing as their adopted brothers and sisters, took the homeless into their homes for meals without fear
I began to realize that what I had heard was wrong
That these women had not given up their dreams or talents
Among them were actresses, painters, linguists, teachers, naval officers, dentists, counselors, scholars
They listened to God and longed to become who He created them to be, down to every last detail.

I thought,
I am created by an amazing Creator
He knew exactly what He was doing by giving me all my abilities, desires and passions
Yet He also knew exactly what He was doing by creating me as a woman with tenderness and compassion for the least of these and the helpless, a deep desire to love and be loved

And I thought,
Why can't I be all the things God has put in my heart? Maybe not all at once, but through the course of life?

Why can't I be a wife, a mom, a writer, a painter, a teacher, a historian, a reader, a scientist, a dreamer?
Why are we often taught that these things are mutually exclusive?

What is a mom, a wife, a homemaker anyway?
Have we created all these trappings around each of these titles that are not of God?
For instance, what if the point of Proverbs 31 is not the things this woman does, but the ways in which she does them - with a noble heart, with wisdom, and above all with fear of the Lord?
Every woman is a unique creation
an image-bearer
reflecting different aspects of His amazing nature

So perhaps being a mom doesn't mean she has to hover around her kids, shuttle them to everything under the sun, and lose a sense of her own self in them
Perhaps it really does just mean she needs to love them with all her heart, and seek the Lord when she can't by her own strength
For man looks at outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
Perhaps being a wife doesn't mean she has to have a knockout figure, act perfect all the time, fit a certain "mold"
Perhaps it really does just mean she needs to love her husband with all her heart, and seek the Lord when she can't by her own strength.
Perhaps being a homemaker doesn't mean she has to keep everything perfectly clean, buy only cute and matching things, cook like a pro, have something constantly baking in the oven
Perhaps it really does just mean loving her family with all her heart, and seeking the Lord when she can't.
After all, what is a home anyway?
What is making a home?
Is it building walls, is it painting furniture, is it mopping floors?
Isn't a home rather made of people, just as the church is made of people?
Isn't homemaking, then, primarily building up your family, cultivating hospitality, creating a space of openness and freedom and security and laughter?

so say the stay-at-home mom is able to keep a perfectly clean home (or perhaps she scrambles around cleaning up little ones' vomit all day and then is taken down by a migraine and the husband comes home to a mess)
or say the doctor doesn't have as much time to clean her home, but builds up her family with the purest love in her heart, instilling in her children the love of science and the love of helping people that have driven her to her ministry/career,
most importantly, say they both seek the Father and instill in their homes a love of Him above all,

aren't they both homemakers?
Aren't they both equally women - unique, beautiful creations of the Most High?

I hear the phrase "Biblical womanhood" so often, its meaning debated as we try to figure out what that all means.
I think there are a lot of different ways to be a woman
because there are a lot of different ways to be a human
and I praise God that He has given me legs to play soccer with kids, arms to hold them when they're sad, a brain to create stories, a mouth to tell them, and hands that can bake cookies, hold a book, play an instrument, or wield a scalpel.
I praise Father that even though I'm single, and sometimes my feet get black from walking on my ever-dusty floor (you'll understand if you live in this country), I can proudly call myself a homemaker - not because I love to decorate, clean, or cook, but because I love to welcome my precious friends into my home and create a space in which they can find refuge and a warm heart.

And at the end of the day I love to hear my Father whisper above all the other voices that no matter what my daily life looks like, or how my brain is wired, or how many mistakes I make, He sees my heart and its motivations...and He loves the woman He has created.

The Gospel according to Esther

I've wanted to write so many "The Gospel according to..." posts and haven't gotten around to it. For instance, "The Gospel according to Exodus" is still in my drafts, and I never actually posted it. As I've been reading through the Bible chronologically, I've been seeing the gospel so much more clearly in each book. This past week, I read Esther.

Esther has been one of my favorite books for a long time. In my elementary school days, I loved that it was about an ordinary girl who becomes a queen. In high school, the phrase "Who knows but that you have been put where you are for just such a time as this?" kept ringing in my ears (adapted from Esther 4:14). As an English major in college, it appealed to my sense of a good story, and I still think it's one of the most well-written stories in the Bible.

But it wasn't until this most recent read-through that I caught a glimpse of Jesus in it.

Though it's been one of my favorite stories for so long, I had always read it as a standalone book and never placed it within the greater narrative of Israel's captivity and return. I definitely hadn't thought about it in the context of the gospel or any of the New Testament. I guess that's one of the great things about reading the Bible chronologically - it begins to all mesh together as one great big story, rather than a bunch of little ones stitched together.

I was struck by Mordecai's incredible integrity. He clearly is a man of God if there ever was one. He takes in the orphan Hadassah (Esther), not treating her as the cousin she is but treating her "as his own daughter" according to chapter 2. He saves the life of the (Persian by the way, not Jewish) king by getting a message to him about an assassination plot. Finally, and most importantly, he refuses to bow to any mere man, especially a corrupt royal official. And this is what gets him in trouble.

That royal official, Haman, does everything in his earthly power to ensure the annihilation of Mordecai and everyone he loves by getting the king to issue a decree that the Jews be killed on a certain day. But little does he know the kingdom's new queen is one of the very people he's trying to kill. Yahweh had ordained what was going to happen and had all the pieces in place ahead of time, ready to display His glory.

So after prayer and fasting, Queen Esther risks her life by going in to the king without being called. Thankfully, he is delighted with her and grants her request of holding a couple of banquets for him and Haman. Esther lulls Haman into a false sense of security with these banquets, as he thinks he is being oh-so-honored, but then Esther outs his whole plot in front of the king. The king then has Haman hanged on the gallows he had built for Mordecai...but not before forcing Haman to parade Mordecai, purple-robed and on a horse, through the streets saying, "This is the one the king delights to honor!"

Mordecai is elevated to a high position, the queen is trusted more than ever, and the Jews not only are saved but also enjoy a period of privilege under this foreign king.

As I thought about how Mordecai was plotted against for refusing to bow to any but God, how one of the most righteous men in the kingdom was targeted by a jealous and prideful official, I thought of Another who did nothing wrong and yet was condemned to death by those in power. I thought about how Mordecai never forsook God even when he probably felt forsaken, that his people had been forsaken. I thought about his commitment, his faith, even while his enemy Haman was being elevated, was succeeding in his evil plan, was indestructible...or so it seemed.

You see, just when Haman thought he'd won, he was destroyed. Just when the enemy seemed to have triumphed, the righteous one was about to gain the true victory.

Mordecai was saved from death, while Jesus actually suffered physical death...but the results were the same. Mordecai was honored above all in the kingdom, given authority second only to the king himself. In that dark moment as Jesus gasped his last words, satan thought he'd won, the teachers of the law thought they'd won. Little did they know that the seemingly defeated one on the cross was conquering not just their very own sin, but also Death itself. Little did they know that after he ascended, he would be placed at the right hand of the Father, given the seat of honor, crowned for all eternity. Little did they know that this one who quietly submitted to the judgment of the religious leaders and Pontius Pilate would judge everyone who has ever lived.

Hadassah, the orphan, one of the lowliest of people, was adopted by an uncle who loved her dearly and raised her as his own daughter. Not only an orphan, but a Jew in the Persian Empire, the odds for success were certainly not stacked in her favor. But because God bestowed grace on her, she found favor with everyone she met and was elevated higher than she could have ever imagined. She was obedient and brave when it counted most, demonstrating her dependence on God and not herself by fasting and praying before she went in to the king. When admonished by Mordecai, she listened, and she became willing to die if it meant God's will would be accomplished. She realized that the favor she had obtained was not due to her charm or beauty, though she possessed these things, but because the Lord Almighty had blessed her. And through his blessing, she was able to release an entire people from captivity and bring them from death to life.

To this day, like Esther, we are always the recipients of grace, and anything heroic or wonderful we do is by His power alone. We can never claim anything as our own, but we hold empty hands up to the Father in worship and praise, and He holds them in turn when we're in distress, pressing his scars closely into our unscarred palms, always filling them with good things. And these good things we can joyfully give to others, speaking life instead of death and truth instead of lies, bringing hope to the hopeless and proclaiming freedom for the prisoners...because we know His goodness never runs dry, and He will be faithful to give even as we feel like we can't give anymore.

The One with the scarred hands...He is not only the one the King delights to honor, as Mordecai was; He is the King. And we are Esther, adopted as sons and daughters, cherished, loved, admonished and corrected that we may grow into heavenly creatures, orphans-turned-heirs, made fit to possess the kingdom prepared for us since before the creation of the world.

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.

"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.

When I Saw the Throne

When I finally saw the throne and the One on it, I stared for about a thousand years. There's no telling, really, and I don't care how long it was, only that my soul was full and my heart was light. The awe took many forms. Sometimes I laughed and lifted my hands with joy, sometimes I lay flat on the floor and let his power roll over me in waves. Sometimes, though, he withheld his great power and instead washed me with love like thin water and white foam trickling over my outstretched body on a sandy beach, gently rinsing my former self away, never to be seen again. Sometimes it took the form of a breeze rippling over my skin and blowing wisps of hair out of my face as though I were lying in soft grass on a sunny day. Sometimes I danced and sang before him, and his approval felt better than the roar of a thundering crowd. He took such great delight in my songs. Never judging, always delighting.

I could have basked there for an endless river of eternities, soaking in the glory and fullness of the One on that throne, but I walked down the shining road to see my other loved ones. Unlike that broken place I had journeyed through for those few short years, I had many loved ones here - millions, in fact. And we finally knew what love was. Our hearts were all one and pounding with such passion and adoration that the power generated could create universes - in fact, it might have. I knew the One on the throne was always creating things, because creating, whether with wisdom or hands, brought him such great delight.

I could no longer really remember that former place, but I knew without a doubt that no love there had been like this. Any of its love had been only a shadow of what was to come. Millions of souls, countless heavenly beings, colors heretofore unknown and an endless chorus of languages and voices...all in perfect unity with each other and the King. Oh, the King...he was what held us all together. I could sing about him forever, in an endless number of languages, and never come close to how good he really is. I never knew before that the planets and the stars also had voices, that the whole universe had been quivering with joy before the One on the throne. The worries of the old earth had deafened so many souls, but here we finally had ears. If only I'd known how good he really was when I walked through that shadowy place for those few short years, if only I could have heard the praises the trees and waters and stars were singing each day...I'd have laughed through every storm.

Even those who were never married on earth were married now, and knew the joy of being the most beloved and beautiful Bride...together we felt what it was to be invited into - no, swept up in - that strong, passionate, joyful heart, and the glorious thrill of pleasure when the door was opened to his fierce love and to his never-ending feast. I thought I had been a bride on earth, but I had never been dressed in white until now. Oh the unspeakable joy of heaven standing open! Of its gates not being closed to me! I knew what I had been...I saw, momentarily, the fate I had deserved, and dark hands clutching at my soul...but the instant I had begun to fear, a curtain of blood had streamed down in front of me, and the hands could not penetrate it. Then the curtain had wrapped itself around me, swaddled me like a baby's clothes...and yet its blood did not stain. This was the only blood I had ever seen that made me whiter at its touch, that did not stain my hands with guilt but rather sponged that guilt away until I shone like a star. I saw Christ's blood streaming in the firmament...and yet, rather than leaving me groping helplessly for the drops, jumping up and down like a madman, the drops rained down and met me.


Then, that same red curtain curtain parted to reveal a shining white horse with a rider called Faithful and True. As soon as I saw his eyes...as soon as I saw his eyes I knew that I was pursued with a longing and desire more jealous than the grave and more passionate than my deepest affections. Faithful and True pulled me up and we rode away so that the pit with the clutching hands was no longer in sight. Its arms will forever be too short to overcome the Rider's jealous love. Once I saw his deep, penetrating eyes and his strong shoulders I could think of nothing else. The indescribable joy of being fully known and yet fully loved! Never tinged with a fear of being abandoned, because his very Name was Faithful. What had that shadowy place known of faithful? What had I ever known of faithful?

Yet deep in my heart, even in my darkest moments, I'd always known this must be true. This must be the truth; that shadowy place was the lie. And now that I could see it, now that I could fully know Him as I'd always been fully known, now that I could see and touch his face, I knew without a doubt that I would never see a shadow again. Forever, my vision would be clear. And forever, truth would reign because the deceiver of the nations was finally destroyed.

Some may have said this vision wasn't real, that the ways of the shadowy place were unchanging; but here with the only Unchanging One I finally saw the wolf graze with the lamb, and I saw the lion rest in their company. Here I saw the man feed the ox but never put a burden on its back, except occasionally a small laughing child who loved that now-burdenless beast. The children who had always wondered what a lion's wondrous mane would feel like finally got to touch and stroke it without fear, and the lion nuzzled them like one of its cubs. Both animals and humans had stopped preying on each other...and somehow I'd always known this was how things were supposed to be, that this was right and good.

The One on the throne had grieved over that shadowy place. Oh, how he'd grieved over all the lives that were wasted because they had no food, or had no one to love them. So many had been deceived and given up their birthrights as heirs to creation and the glorious honor of creating. So many others been robbed of their creative breath by disease or hunger. How many of us had given up our mantles as image-bearers and fallen into destruction or apathy. But here I saw those who had been deceived into being men of brutality plowing soil and picking fruit; I saw those who had fearfully destroyed other men laughing and dancing with children; I saw those who had annihilated the old earth tending and delighting in the new one. I saw children who'd died for lack of water splashing around in the everlasting spring and rafting down the crystal river, where anyone could come and drink without cost.

The One on the throne now lived with us and within us; there was no separation. The hand of the Father and the hands of earth, which had been reaching for each other for so long, had not only touched but become one. The desire of every heart was filled, and every chasm was closed. It was the land of no horizon.

The King's eyes surveyed this new earth and sparkled with joy. It was very, very good.



The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!" And let the one who hears say, "Come!" Let the one who is thirsty come; and let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life.

Waking the Dead

Everything was black except one white-clothed figure lying on the ground, golden hair flowing from her head.

I wouldn't normally do this, I thought, but I kneeled over her and prayed, my pounding heart the only sound in the blackness. My hand on her shoulder, I begged God to raise her from the dead.

I don't know how long I knelt there in that dream, but I know that I eventually saw the head lift, golden hair finally leaving the floor, her arms shakily propping herself up. Then, finally, like a baby animal of some kind, she rose to her feet.

I woke up and went about my normal college student morning, hitting the snooze button a few times, probably temporarily forgetting the dream, reading my Bible, spreading some cream cheese on a bagel. Then I got a call from a friend I was supposed to have lunch with.

She said she had to cancel because she was on the way to a hospital where her best friend's little sister lay in a coma.

The golden-haired girl had been in a horrible car accident, had been unresponsive for two weeks, and now no one was sure if she'd ever wake up. A 10% chance of waking. And if waking, then probably no walking. Possible paralysis.

10% chance.

A high school girl. Like I had been just a few years ago.

As I assured her that of course I completely understood, and I would be praying for her, my dream rushed back into my consciousness. I saw that girl getting shakily to her feet. I felt the power of the Most High God rush through my feeble hands and permeate that black room.

I felt it permeate this black world.

And, reopening my Bible and reading the stories of how Jesus raised that 12-year-old girl from the dead and healed a woman who had been bleeding for years, and knowing he is still able, I fasted and prayed most of the day for this girl I had never met and probably never will meet. Emotions that I knew were not my own rushed through me; passion poured through my heart that did not come from my mind but from heaven's. I felt a Father's heart for his daughter. I felt an entire community joining with this one college student in Austin, begging for one small life out of billions. Prayers were lifted that were not from our hearts but from His, power came from our words that was not our own power but His.

In my heart, I felt an incredible assurance. I knew with certainty that this girl would rise, that she would even walk. I knew He'd given me that dream for a reason. I treasured this in my heart, just between Jesus and me.

A few days later I got the word.

She woke up.

Weeks later, she walked.

Supported physically and emotionally by people who loved her, she walked out of the hospital.

As miraculous as this was, and how incredible as it was that Father allowed a distant, unrelated person like me to be a small part of it and watch Him do his thing, her wakefulness wasn't the biggest miracle. Her walking wasn't the biggest miracle.

The biggest miracle was what happened in the next few months, what I wasn't there for but what I can imagine: the mood swings, the progress, the letdowns, a family never giving up hope, taking her recovery painfully slow, day-by-day, moment-by-moment. A girl rediscovering every tiny bit of herself.

When Father shows up and does a momentary miracle, we all rejoice. We are in awe, and we wish we had more moments like that. But one second is not the end. One second may spur the beginning of a life change, one second may mark an important milestone, but the most awe-inspiring works of art take the most time. Relationships take a lot of time. People take a lot of time.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead in a matter of seconds. What we are not told was what happened afterward. What would you do if you thought your life was over, and suddenly you were awake again and had that precious time back? Though the miracle took seconds, the life that formed afterward was another miracle.

It only takes seconds for Jesus to raise a body.

It only takes seconds for him to salvage a soul.

May we rejoice even more in the hard, beautiful, refining times that follow, than in that one precious moment.

Jesus Loves You

"Jesus loves you," she was assured, by people with big smiling faces who promptly went home to their big homes with big white families inside to eat a big Sunday dinner and watch football on a big TV.

"Jesus loves me," she sang with the rest of the kids in the Sunday School class, even though she might as well have been of a different species the way they wouldn't talk to her and giggled when she walked in.

"Jesus loves everyone," she was told she must tell others in order to be a good girl, by a pastor who didn't know her name and was more concerned about how many people came to a building each week than how many little girls didn't have a nice big family like his to go home to.

"Jesus loves the world," a cool video said, and she was told to go to Haiti and help build a home for orphans. But she didn't have the money to go with the rest of the youth group, and her parents thought it was pointless anyway, so she just longingly looked at the Facebook photos of the $70-Chacos-wearing youth group smiling with cute Haitian children.

And then, one day as she invisibly walked home from school with a heavy-laden backpack, not invited to get ice cream with the rest of the school friends who would then tell her Jesus loved her on Sunday at youth group, someone called her name.

"Hey!" said a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, wearing dirty white sneakers and a nose ring. They'd talked a couple times in homeroom and realized they lived in the same neighborhood and liked the same TV show. "You want to come eat with my family and me? And then maybe we can watch TV!"

In that moment, for the first time in a long time, she wondered if someone up there just might love her.

Unblushing Promises

I've been having more bad dreams than usual lately. Last night I had one that woke me up early, tense and short of breath. I've lived a whole day since then, so all I can really remember was that in the dream I was completely alone in a gloomy house, and when I flipped lights on, they were dim and eerie and would never get any brighter. Then at some point in the dream, I realized I was cut off from everyone else in the world, like a ghost, and they didn't even know I existed. And I was doomed to live that way.

That was frightening.

But you know what's wonderful? No sooner did I wake up and get a grip of where I was, and I felt the Father's presence. I was able to smile and worship for a bit and laugh with joy at the fact that I am never alone.

And I just sat in awe for a bit of how much I am really promised.

My life will only get better because I have an eternal one to look forward to. One without bad dreams, without body aches, without shortness of breath. With not even one tear. With no pain or suffering, because these things will have passed away.

WOW...forever? Really? FOREVER? And all we have to do to get that is to run the (if we're "lucky") 100-year race with Jesus that we've been assigned on earth? All we have to do is have one grand adventure of a life, one spent on things of eternal significance? And we get to be one with Jesus, and we get to rest in the Spirit, even here? What an incredible deal!

That I know for sure, without a doubt, that I do not have to fear eternal darkness. That even now, as soon as I call on my Savior, darkness runs away as fast as it can. I know, when I have dreams like that, that they are only dreams that will never become reality. I know that fear, evil, and sin have no power over me. And I know this without a doubt. There are no "maybe if I'm good enough"s or "maybe my next life will be better" or "maybe if I frantically try to do good every moment of everyday, it will outweigh the bad I have done." Father has thrown away the scales! The hands that some say hold judgment scales are actually empty, palms open, ready and longing to welcome His sons and daughters into His kingdom. There are no judgment scales for those who know Him; there is only a mercy seat, with the One who sits on it beckoning, "Anyone who is thirsty, come!"

Confidence in salvation. I am ashamed at how little I rejoice in this. I don't have those dark moments in a corner of my room in which I wonder if I'm really redeemed, if I'm really in the Bride, if I will really be presented white as snow, spotless and sparkling. I don't have those lingering doubts, those little fears...and it has nothing to do with how great I am. I don't even have those fears when I mess up royally. And it's not because I don't recognize the gravity of my sin, it's because His promises are true. He doesn't promise anything on which He does not deliver. Since the rainbow has been in the sky, He has never again flooded the entire earth. He made both Israel and Ishmael into great nations. He sent the promised Savior into the world, that the people in darkness may see a great light. Therefore, I know that if He has promised I will live with Him forever, I have a glorious chamber which He is preparing for me.

"All glorious is the princess within her chamber...In embroidered garments she is led to the King..." Psalm 45
"I go to prepare a place for you." John 14:2

That He has a perfect, unshakable plan for my life. He doesn't have to care about these <100 measly years on this earth, but He cares about even those. He sees every long red wavy hair that gets lost in my hairbrush or that falls to the ground. And some years from now, He will number my white hairs with just as much love and care. So every trial, every victory, every moment of tears, every moment of laughter, is perfect if only because it is orchestrated by my perfect King who will welcome me after all the trials are over with. Who will look at me as a groom looks at his bride. "Well done, my good and faithful servant." "Come...take the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world."

What are the "pleasures" of this earth compared with the promises of my Lord? What does this world have to offer?

"If we consider the unblushing promises of reward promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desire not too strong, but too weak." C.S. Lewis

May we have a passion and desire for Him that is worthy of the unblushing promises He has given us.

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.

Elephants and Termites

Two lifelong friends sit at their favorite restaurant, discussing their day, their work, and their kids. These women have so much in common – the same worldview, the same church, the same hobbies (they always go play tennis while their husbands golf together on the weekends). They have the kind of friendship in which one can confide anything to the other and know that her secret will be safe. They’ve helped each other through family losses, emotional battles, countless tears and joys…nothing can tear them apart.

And then it happens.

One woman says, “I just can’t wait for Halloween! I’m having so much fun helping Jenny look for her Hermione Granger costume.”

The other woman bristles a little on the inside. How can her beloved friend not realize the origins of Harry Potter and Halloween? Why is she exposing her child to such things?

“Oh…well, our family doesn’t believe in celebrating Halloween. And we don’t allow our kids to read Harry Potter.”

Silence. Tension. Judgment on both sides. (How can she take the fun of Halloween away from her kids? And Harry Potter has so many Christian themes!) All of a sudden a wall comes between them.

Between women who have helped each other through near-divorces, through crises of faith, through the loss of one parent to suicide, another to a car accident.

I heard the phrase “It’s not the elephants that will get you, but the termites” a while back. In context, it’s saying that it’s the day-to-day troubles that will wear on you, rather than the catastrophes. But I think we can also apply this to our relationships, and it’s no different among believers. We split over the small stuff.

Two people may agree that trusting Jesus bridges the gap between us and God. They may agree that we have an obligation and privilege to always help out our fellow man, even if it means trouble and sacrifice for us. They may agree that human life is always sacred, even if the person doesn’t “deserve” to live, or even if the life hasn’t appeared yet. They may agree that family is a precious treasure that should be preserved at all costs. They may agree that educating people and then giving them a choice is better than just telling them what to do.

But then one drinks a glass of wine, or the other doesn't allow her kids to watch a certain movie, and the friendship is permanently strained.

It’s amazing how angry we get, how emotional we get, over the things that don’t matter in the long run. And everyone has a valid point. Many conclusions can be arrived at logically, and everyone can poke holes in everyone’s arguments and find Scriptural evidence for both stances.

Paul had a similar situation going on in his baby church in Corinth. Some people had come from backgrounds of worshipping other gods and taking part in their rituals and feasts. Now that they were Christians, they had a huge problem with continuing to eat that food because it reminded them of their past (a valid point). Therefore, they condemned other Christians who ate food that had been sacrificed to these gods, saying that they were sinning. These other Christians responded that all food is God's food, so why does it matter? (also a valid point) Here is how Paul responds in 1 Corinthians 8:1-9:

“Now concerning things sacrificed to idols, we know that we all have knowledge. Knowledge makes arrogant, but love edifies. If anyone supposes that he knows anything, he has not yet known as he ought to know; but if anyone loves God, he is known by Him.

"Therefore concerning the eating of things sacrificed to idols, we know that there is no such thing as an idol in the world, and that there is no God but one. For even if there are so-called gods whether in heaven or on earth, as indeed there are many gods and many lords, yet for us there is but one God, the Father, from whom are all things and we exist for Him; and one Lord, Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we exist through Him.

"However not all men have this knowledge; but some, being accustomed to the idol until now, eat food as if it were sacrificed to an idol; and their conscience being weak is defiled. But food will not commend us to God; we are neither the worse if we do not eat, nor the better if we do eat. But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block….”

These people in Corinth are squabbling over termites. Paul brings them back to the elephants, the things that really matter. The important thing is that we know and love the Father, and that He knows and loves us. Whether we do this thing or we do not, we agree that there is one true God, we agree that He alone created everything, and that we exist and live our lives for Him alone. As for this lesser thing, no one’s choices make him better than his friend. However, make sure to love each other in everything, and don’t do or say something in front of your friend if you know it’s going to hurt him.

So next time your friend disagrees with you about a termite issue, your first reaction may be to bristle, and that’s normal…it’s human nature. But remember what Paul says in 1 Corinthians, remember the elephants you do agree on, and respect your friend’s motivation that led to his or her decision. To love and honor God. To love and honor others. And love edifies.

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.

A 12-Year-Old Girl

A 12-year-old girl can.
She can still imagine whole new worlds out of something as mundane as neighborhood construction, or she can build a catapult in science class.

She can be silly and carefree, but she can also be troubled by injustices in the world.
She can exude the charms of a little girl one minute and the wisdom of a woman the next.

But she must be encouraged. She must be loved.

A 12-year-old girl has to be told she can.
A 12-year-old girl has to be told she is worth something.
A 12-year-old girl needs to be reassured of her unique beauty and value as a person.
A 12-year-old girl needs her family to stand behind her and encourage her to reach her goals.

But a 12-year-old girl, from America to Algeria, is told too many messages, and they all conflict.

At 12, a girl is tempted to turn outdoor exploring into indoor mirror-staring.
At 12, a girl begins to see her body as an object of eyes, rather than a God-created vessel with hands and feet.
At 12, a girl's dreams begin to shatter as she is told what society expects of her and realizes she does not measure up.
At 12, a girl is discouraged from pursuing a better world so that she can pursue the favor of peers, of eyes.
At 12, a girl doesn't know who to listen to because everyone seems to have different ideas of who she should be.

And at 12 in some places, she doesn't even have a choice of which voice to listen to.

She may be forced out of school.
She may be forced to marry.
She may be abused by someone she never chose.

But if we,
for the sake of the 12-year-old girl we once were,
for the sake of the 12-year-old girls we know,
for the sake of the 12-year-old girls around the world who we would love as sisters if only we knew them,

if we invest in them, nurture them, applaud them, encourage them, become their voices,

they will reinvest 90% into their homes, pulling entire families and even villages out of illiteracy, malnutrition, and poverty.
they will live longer for every 1 year of primary school they are able to attend
they will be able to have children when they are physically and emotionally ready, and childbirth will no longer be the #1 cause of death for teenage girls in the developing world.

But we have to choose to start the Girl Effect.
The clock is ticking.






If you also believe in the impact a 12-year-old girl can have on her family, community, and country, please spread the message about the Girl Effect on your blog, Twitter, or any other means. To see posts from other people who believe in the Girl Effect, go to this page: http://www.taramohr.com/girleffectposts/