Putting an IS between an R and a K

I inch my way across the platform which stands 10 meters above the surface of the water, my toes feeling the edge.  I look down, inhaling.  Deeply.  I pause, wondering if the risk is too great.  I muster up every ounce of courage within and take one small step that sends me spiraling downward, downward, downward into the clear blue.  I come up for air, water bubbling around me.  I shake my head to rid myself of the adrenaline and let out a call reminiscent of an Indian victory chant.  I feel untouchable, for I have conquered the jump. 

That was twelve years ago.  When a dare was something to be taken, when a risk greatly raised excitement levels.  When I longed to forge boldly into the unknown, just to see what could be found. 

While I still love a great adrenaline rush, I am not quite the risk-taker I once was.  Caution has replaced some of the daring within me, responsibility sometimes overrides risk. 

But I never want to live my life void of risk. 

I heard Ravi Zacharias throw out a closing quote in one of his sermons this summer that has been mulling around in my head since I heard it. He was speaking to a group of young adults and strongly encouraging (a stronger verb would work better, but I can’t think of one) them to put “all of their eggs in one basket” when it comes to who you trust, the Savior of the world, and how you live out your life with those around you.  His final words were those that stuck with me:  “The greatest of human gifts are set to work only when people are prepared to risk everything.” 

So risking brings about the things that are valuable, huh?  Think about what you consider valuable.  Was getting that thing of great value a risk? Is keeping it a risk?  I think of the parable of the pearl of great price, or the man who finds a field, or even the risk the father took on the prodigal son.  As I ponder what I count valuable, I find that each item certainly holds its own risk. 

And then I think of this: Christ risked it all for the plan of redemption. 

So, could we say that we are being like Christ when we take risks? 

I’m not talking about high dives and bungee jumping here (although some could argue that there’s something there, who knows?), but what about taking a financial risk to help another in need?  Or risking your reputation to follow a seemingly odd dream that God placed in your heart.  Or risking hurt by allowing hope to stay alive in an unmet desire.  Or, what I think can be the hardest of all, risking rejection and pain by opening your heart in relationship with those around you. 

You name it, if it is valuable, it is risky. 

A few months ago I planned to take my crew of 8^th and 9^th graders to Tallulah Gorge State Park.  We signed our lives away on these scary little yellow slips that acknowledged that we knew the risks of hiking on a gorge floor.  Every motherly instinct within me flew to the surface as I saw the rocky path that zig-zagged across raging waters.  I was ready to turn the whole crew around; it looked way too risky.  But with promises of help from the dads that were on the trip and 15 pleading sets of eyes, we went on.  We helped each other over slippery rocks, we scrambled up rock ledges, and we held tightly to outstretched hands that helped us stay on the tiny path right beside the river. 

And we had So. Much. Fun. 

Was it safe?  Not always.  Was it risky?  Certainly, (but so is driving your car).  Was it fun?  Absolutely.   Will we soon forget it?  Not a chance. 

So where in my life might God be asking me to take a risk?  Where might He be asking you to risk it all? 

I’m pretty sure we’d be better for answering that call. 

Adolescents vs. Egg Shells

Yesterday I did something extraordinary.  I used an oven.

I love to cook.  I really do.  But I rarely do it.   Dinner most nights consists of whatever I feel like throwing into a frying pan.  It’s always ready in 5ish minutes.  It’s always edible, but only occasionally delicious.  I always give Ms. Roommate a fair warning before she picks up a fork to sample. 

But going to a potluck requires one to reach beyond the frying pan.  So I pulled out the recipe book, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

I was two minutes into my project when I felt myself calming from the inside out.  Flour was flying, eggshells piling up in the strangest of places; the kitchen was beginning to resemble a classroom after an art class. 

But while the room was cluttering, something inside of me was straightening.  While the mixer whirred, my anxiousness settled.  “This is therapy,” I thought to myself. 

How can holding a spoon stir something so deeply within me?  Follow my thought pattern here…

When you cook, you know that if you follow the recipe, you will get the product you’re aiming for.  More or less, at least.  When you separate an egg and beat the white, it will stiffen.  When you add flour to hot milk, it will thicken.  When you forget your cake in the oven for three hours, it will burn.  When you mix butter, sugar, flour, and a few other necessary items together, you will get cookies.

Kinda nice to have a place to retreat to where formulas work.  Where an outcome is known and expected.  Where if you do X to Y, you will get Z. 

It kinda seems like most things in life don’t work in such a predictable fashion.  Yes, there are some laws, some formulas (sowing and reaping, for one), but mostly working with people, ourselves included, reminds us that there are not always formulaic solutions.  A pep talk may inspire one and infuriate another.  Sometimes we need a call-out; other times we need an extra dose of friendship. 

In her song “Fireflies and Songs,” Sara Groves asks this question: “Were you surprised our hearts were not like ticking clocks, with faces and hands easy to read?”  I’ve often thought about that line.  About how we truly are not creatures of predictable formulas.  About how we are wired to be relational, for we were made in the image of a relational Being.  About how the ultimate revelation of Truth was revealed in the person of Jesus Christ.  Not in a formula, or a three-step process, but in a relationship. 

Goodness, we all know those things called relationships can get sticky.  The can cut long and wound deep.  And even after all of our love, care, and guidance, those we invest in ultimately have to make decisions for themselves. 

But oh, how rich they can be.  How much wealth we can acquire from them.  How something can resound deeply within us, whispering “for this fellowship, we were made.” 

So, I choose the friend over the formula in my relationships.  I choose the adolescent over the egg shell in my career.  And I choose to pursue a relationship with my Father rathern than demanding that He reveals the whole picture in my faith. 

And every once in awhile, I’ll pull out the old mixer to satisfy the need for a formula within me. 

My house. My home. My heart.

I went to Thailand last month. 

Thailand.  The land with the sultry air and heavy clouds.  The land of curry and spice. 

The land so far away and yet so close to me. 

You see, Thailand is the land that captured my heart.  Nearly ten years ago, I changed my address to Chiang Mai, Thailand, and kept it that way for almost four years.  My experiences during those four years withing its borders expanded my view of God, of myself, and of the world around me.

And this summer, after five years of separation, I was reunited with this old friend. 

Since I've been home, everyone has been asking me how my trip was.  It's a tough question to answer.  Because it was great, incredible, refreshing, rejuvenating, and any and all other positive adjectives you'd like to insert.  Mostly though, it just felt like going home.  To the familiar that I had just left behind.  My heart beat strong and clear.  Something felt right.  Like I was in my house.  At my home.  Near my heart. 

This feeling might have brought out the cheesy side of me.

Visiting all the old haunts with all kinds of great people.

Sailing rivers (like two hi-so sailors) with yum food.

Hugs from all grown up kids.

Food so yummy I couldn't stop eating.

Reconnecting with far-away sister-friends.

The whole experience was so good.  And yet so hard.  I was so hit by the darkness of the culture, the discrepancy between the rich and the poor (with me included in the rich segment), the sexual sin that seems to have risen in prevalence, the utter lostness of the land.  Even in the eyes of close friends, I saw hurt, raw pain.  I saw blatant examples of how the enemy is seeking to destroy. 

I wanted to fix it.  I wished to alleviate their pain, to change the situation.  But I couldn't.  I felt panicky with only having two weeks. 

And that's when I knew I had to trust that there is One who loves this land far more than I.  One who loves these souls far above what I can even comprehend.  One who truly does reside in Thailand.  One who rightfully calls it His house, His home, His heart. 

Flying back to the land in which He has me now was hard, but it was peaceful.  In my heart I know that this is where He has me right now.  This is where He has asked me to faithfully serve Him, and He now calls me to intercede on behalf of those in that far-off land I love. 

For my Father really does have the whole world in His hands. 



Decade the Third.

I turn 30 next month.  Three-zero.  I leave behind my identity as a twenty-something and take my first step into the next decade. 

I was in high school when my oldest sister hit the 30 mark.  I ragged her about being old as mold and was pretty sure that she should be putting her birthday money away to start saving for a gravestone.  I took every opportunity to rub her age under her nose.  I was awful. 

If I had an 18 year old sister doing that to me right now....o boy....I don't know what I'd do. 

Sorry, Lois. 

My mind has been pulled in the direction of this milestone alot lately, and I've had a few mini-epiphanies (emphasis on mini) about the subject.  So here's a brief list on the things I'm learning about being on the brink of a new decade.

1.  I don't feel old.  I'd like to say that to my 18-year old self.  30 is not old as mold.  I still feel like a kid when I jump into a pool of water, cheer like a crazy person at a ball game, catch the fast kid in king's base (I love teaching), blow bubbles, chase a lightning bug (for a nephew, of course), drive barefooted, or stand at the top of a mountain or the foot of a waterfall.  I still naturally fall into the little sister category when I'm with my family, which results in a renewed feeling of youth each time.  My heart still feels young.

2.  Life really does get sweeter.  I've thought alot about this concept this past year.  Maybe it's the events of my life during year 29, or maybe it's a natural progression that happens around this age.  I experience joy mixed with pain.  I express laughter intertwined with tears.  I see triumph mingled with suffering.  Perhaps I am a late bloomer and my eyes are only now being opened to what that that abundant life is that Jesus promised to give, but whatever it is, life feels much more valuable to me than it did a few years ago, and even the bitter holds a hint of something sweet. 

3.  Dreams sometimes find new faces.  Had I been asked on my 20th birthday to sketch out where I'd like to be at 30, I am sure it would be wildly different from what my life looks like today.  That picture probably would have included a husband, a couple kids, and a position in a high-action, people-filled, God-centered, ministry on the foreign field.  That's not so much what my life looks like right now.  While I hope that someday my life might look more like that, right now I am living a shadow of that dream, a new face of it.  An incredible support group of friends both far and near, a classroom full of teenagers, and a life that brings me a boatload of opportunites each day to serve others. 

4.  I am not Wonder Woman.  I used to be the strong one.  The one who could sleep on a pile of wood, a bed of rocks, or whatever position necessary.  Now, I can't.  After dealing with reoccurring back issues that make me walk like I'm 80, doctors tell me I have some unnatural curvature of my spine.  I hear words like therapy, treatment, adjustment, and time, this will take time.  I have to be careful how I play sports, lift heavy objects, and even how I sleep, but I'm really grateful for doctors that have a hopeful outlook on treating this issue.  The 20s have also brought some bruising to my heart, and I have learned of my need for others and my desperate need for Jesus more with each passing year. 

5.  Chocolate cake makes it all better.  Oh the gooey goodness of shortening, cocoa, and sugar.  Every problem can be fixed with cake. That is, except for the whole BMI issue. 

16 more days till I take the leap...

Because life is more than bubblegum

Tomorrow morning's Bible class covers the topic of stories.  We all have them.  Some we love to tell; others we long to forget.  Each story centers around decisions we made, either consciously or unconsciously, out of our worldview.

I pulled up my old xanga site and had a jaunt down memory lane as I remembered some old stories in my own neighborhood.  I laughed as I saw pictures, cringed at all the spelling and grammar errors (please, save me from myself!), and reminisced on days gone by, on stories filed away.

I'm living a story right now.  Sometimes it seems all storybook-ish.  Other times it feels more like I'm stuck in the outtakes. 

Funny how perspective fades when you're right in the middle of it. 

Tonight I made myself a latte, turned on an instrumental pandora station, and lesson-planned for my World Lit class tomorrow.  This evening that would have looked like a glamour shot a year or two ago.  my first job...my own latte...wi-fi in a cute little house...

Unfortunately, tonight it mostly felt like work. 

How quickly I forget that life is made of years, which are made of weeks, which are made of days, which are made of hours.  In these hours stories are born, matured, and completed.  In these moments, decisions arise.  Decisions that matter, mostly much more than I think they do.

Doing life with middle schoolers has taught me that very few things stay the same from day to day.  I have no promise of tomorrow. 

But I do have today.  Right here.  Right now.  Those 19 set of eyes reminded me of that this morning.  Soon I will send them out the door for one final time. 

But for today, they're still mine. 

I purpose in my heart to makes these moments count.  To allow the Master Author to pen something worthy.  Something honorable to Him.  Something including low-key evenings of prep.  And yes, something middle-schoolish. 

Ships

I am twenty years old. I stand at the pier, surrounded by friends of my own age. Each one eagerly scans the horizon, wondering which ship the hopeful waters will send their way. Anticipation fills the air; a smidge of apprehension hides within each heart.



One by one the ships come. I watch as some board those bound to college and career. Mostly, I watch as they climb aboard ships that waltz them to an altar where they say two small words that form a life-long commitment.


But mine has a different name, a different purpose. Its voyage lands me on the other side of the world, provides me with four thrilling, high-action, grueling, adventurous years of participating in God’s work on the foreign field. This voyage has a peculiar feeling about it; I know it is changing the course of my life.


Four years later I find myself back on the pier, waiting for a new ship to peek its head over the horizon. One comes, and whisks me away to an unnoticed Bible college in the Southeast. Outwardly, I stay put; inwardly, I am navigating unchartered waters of exploring the heart of God and learning to love Him through the expansion of my mind.


Once more, four years after setting-sail, I find myself on that familiar pier. Again I wonder what the next ship will hold. I look around me, and nearly all of my peers are well into their voyage of marriage and family. I look within me and see that desire for a “normal” ship is increasing, as is my want to nurture another through mothering. I wonder if this is the time that God will bring that ship along.


But the current sends a different vessel. I catch a glimpse from afar. It is easy to notice because of the 19 sets of arms that are flailing from its deck and for the particular shrill of a Jr. High girl’s scream. It reaches out and grabs me as it sails past. I wonder if I know what I’m in for.


As I settle in, I realize that this ship involves much more than being a teacher. For besides instructing about poetry, predicate adjectives, and personification, we look to the Word of God to learn about faith, godliness, and eternity. We live life together and I learn what it means to have a roomful of eyes watching my every action.


One day, a student slips up and calls me “mom.” We laugh. Later, I ponder it. Maybe this ship is not just what I would have asked for, but perhaps it’s not so different as I once thought. I draw and enforce boundaries. I dry tears. I listen to excited stories. I correct when needed. I cheer with success and hurt with difficulties. I referee; I coach; I teach. Sounds a bit like being a mom.


Perhaps it is not the way I had charted my course those nine years ago, but maybe it holds more of what I long for than I ever thought it would. It is where this voyage has brought me. And I will embrace it.

When Words Don't Work

I have a fascination with the written word. A well constructed sentence has a certain power over me. Most of my books are filled with pencil marks, places where I just had to underline the words that jumped off the page at me.


I also have a thing for the spoken word. A skilled orator has my full attention. I love being a part of good conversation. It fills some sort of cavity inside me.

I have also found that the expression of words, either spoken or written, is one of the best releases for my spirit. While some go for a good run to cool off steam, or draw a bath to relieve stress, my release is found through conversation or through paper and pen.

But sometimes, words don’t work. And then I feel trapped. Like this inner-struggle has no way of cooling off, of being redirected, of settling. I try to talk through it, but I can’t put words on it. I pick up a pen, but the page remains blank.

Right now is one of those times. I can’t put my finger on what’s going on inside of me. I feel a lot, and I feel nothing. I feel empty; I feel full. I want to laugh, and I want to cry. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.

Try as I might, I can’t define this feeling. Am I growing, or taking steps backward? Am I living in acceptance or in denial? Am I softening or turning hard?

How can I hand a struggle over to God when I don’t even know what I’m dealing with myself?

Enter the words of a Christ-follower named Paul, penned by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit: In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. 27 And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.

Bingo.

Thank you, Holy Spirit, for Your wordless groans. Thank you, Father, for being the interpreter. Thank you, Jesus, for paving the way.