So long!

Well, this little space has served me well over the past few years, but I think it's time to move to a new, bigger, better space.

One where I hope to write a lot more. And I hope you will join me over there.

My new blog is:

www.angieleona.com

I hope to find you there!

Much love,

Angie

On Suicide, Depression, and Swallowing My Pride

I was thirteen when it happened.

I woke up to yellow tape across the street, darkness heavy in the air. It was a blue shed where he had done it, and although I never saw the inside of the shed, I could easily imagine how his body was found. I heard the stories; how his wife found the note on the counter by his ballcap, and ran out to find him out back. The blue shed only lasted a little while, a stark reminder in the February cold of what had happened. One day, finally, someone in town bulldozed it away. The physical reminder was gone. But my questions remained.

I can still feel his wife collapsing in my arms at the funeral, and the questions that had been ringing in my ears since that Sunday rang even louder. How could he do this? How selfish can one person be to leave behind a beautiful daughter and wife?

There was an underlying thought that somehow, suicide and mental health and depression was linked to selfishness. Because, in my thirteen-year-old's mind, what else could explain such an act?

And then, in my third year at university, there was the book. Dark Night of the Soul. And it challenged me; it challenged me to see from the mind of someone severely depressed. To see the darkness that shadowed their every move.

And then.

The darkness fell upon me.

I felt like I was drowning. While everyone else around me was breathing.

Every choice became a source of anxiety. I couldn't even decide whether to eat dinner in the dining room or the living room without stress.

The heavy weight of sadness followed me everywhere. I would find myself weeping for no reason other than the sadness I felt. I would seek anything to lift the darkness I was feeling - my family. My friends. Prayer. The Word.

And nothing was working. Nothing that gave me life was giving me life. I didn't look at a lake and talk to God about the beauty He must have delighted in to create it. I didn't see Him in any of the places I had previously found Him. And worse; I felt like I couldn't feel Him anymore.

So I found myself in the doctor's office, the imprint of the nurse's sympathetic hand on my knee burning a hole on my skin. I told the doctor about this pit of despair I was drowning in. I needed a lifeline because I so felt like I was drowning. There was an ethereal feeling, though - I found myself asking myself, is this really me? Am I the one talking to the doctor across from me about suffering from depression?

As I walked out of the doctor's office, and a week later walked into a therapist's office, I have swallowed my pride. The Lord teaches us humility in gentle yet painful ways. I am not as strong as I might appear. I need so much help. I am learning the verse from 2 Corinthians that I have written down is so true for my life these days. "And He said unto me, 'My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore, I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong."

I say all of this because there have been two things that have encouraged me in this hard season, in this season of learning how His grace is sufficient for me. I have learned that I am not alone. Depression isolates you; but that's the farthest thing from the truth. It has been such a ray of hope and encouragement for me to hear of other's journies; to have people literally stop whatever they are doing to lay hands on me and pray. For each of you who have been there for me: from the bottom of my heart I thank you.

And the second is, whatever I am going through does not change who God is. I will choose to trust that He is who He says He is - even if, in this season, I don't "feel" it. He is bigger and stronger than my feelings. And He has always, always, proven faithful in His sovereignty. For when I am weak - which these days, is every day - He. Is. Strong.

Sadly so many have struggled with mental illness and not sought help. I've been on the other end where I have sat and judged. It's hard for me to even write these things because I know there are people out there who will judge - who will tell me that I need to pray harder, or "choose" happiness when I wish it was a simple as that. But I beg you - please don't find yourself where I once sat. It could be you. I pray these words of mine encourage others to tell their stories; you aren't alone. If you are feeling that darkness, let me lay down in it with you. If you are feeling alone, let me hold your hand and remind you that you aren't. You'll see rays of sunshine and joy again; and when you do, I will dance with you.

Find that person.

It was a late afternoon. The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and I lingered in the doorway with it. I made small talk as I am apt to do when stalling; and although I knew in her eyes she knew what I was doing, I did it anyways. When my words finally ran out, I finally crossed the room, sinking into the sofa across from her.

"So how are you?" she asks me in her quiet way. Her words are an invitation to me; they are the warm, safe blanket I am seeking. Before I even answer her, I can feel the tears brimming in my eyes and I fight the urge to look away from her. "Not good," I reply, and my voice cracks.

"I know you aren't," she says softly, her face reflective of the tears that have appeared in my eyes. There's a moment of silence but the silence is anything but quiet. It's proclaiming the grace I am desperately seeking; it's showing me the heart I have been searching for just to simply listen.

I was searching for someone to hold my brokenness in their hands and to not allow me to stay that way, but to hold my hand as I step forward. To allow me to share the dark parts of me; to confess the sins I hide deep in my heart. But even more than that, I was searching for someone to love me in spite of my darkness.

And although I know Christ loves us that way, He also calls us to love one another in that manner. And sometimes finding someone who loves in the gracious way He does is hard.

But, on that afternoon with the smell of coffee in the air, I found it. I experienced grace. What a beautiful thing, because although admitting how we fall seems like such a failure, what Jesus does through grace is transform it into a sign of redemption.

I say all of this to say,

find that person. 

Seek out that person who will love like Christ does, and confess your sins. Unconfessed sins are a powerful tool in the hands of the Enemy. He uses them against us. But confessed sins are a powerful tool in the hands of the Lord, because He uses them for testimonies.

Find that space. Find the space in which you can be known, the dark, gritty, ugly parts and all.

Because when grace invades those ugly parts? God uses even that to bring Him glory.

"Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results." (James 5:16)

Fall leaves and barren trees

Henri Nouwen wrote that "joy and sadness are as close to each other as the splendid coloured leaves of a New England fall to the soberness of the barren trees. When you touch the hand of a returning friend, you already know that he will have to leave you again. When you are moved by the quiet vastness of a sun-covered ocean, you miss the friend who cannot see the same. Joy and sadness are born at the same time, both arising from such deep places in your heart that you can't find words to capture your complex emotions."

I read these words on Saturday, as I tried to understand how I could feel sorrow at the beginning of something good. It was as if my heart, although full of joy at the newness of change, couldn't fully experience that joy - because it was already preparing itself for when it would end.

I realized and wondered if joy and sorrow are inexplicably linked. Because isn't one gain a sign of many losses, too? One beautiful, glorious triumph is truly built of all the falls leading up to it. As I celebrate the newness of this season in my life, of change and moves and unknowns, I also am sorrowful for what I too have lost - a childhood chapter closed, friendships changing, shifting roles. With every gain, there is so much loss. Yet with every loss, there is oh so much gain.

I am a big believer in seasons of life - that most things have a beginning and an end. But secretly? I also loathe their existence. I hate that some friends are meant for a season. And I even hate that some people are meant just for a conversation, that they are meant to impart wisdom for the two hours you sit across from them in a crowded airplane. It's sad to me that some jobs are meant just for a time, and it breaks my heart that some homes are meant for a childhood.  I am not good at juggling the contrasting things in life.

But I am trying.

I am trying to embrace both the joy and sorrow, and to hold them together as if they are both beautiful and needed.

I am trying to embrace beginnings and endings, as if they both shape me in different but good ways.

I'm trying to see God in the seasons of life - the short ones and the long ones, the dark ones and the bright ones.

I'm making the constant decision that He is the Redeemer and Author of all things,

of hellos and goodbyes,

of beginnings and endings,

and of fall leaves and barren trees.

Reflections on Senegal

This morning, just like every morning before work, I pulled out my bag of coffee beans and ground a few fresh tablespoons. I'm a coffee snob, I fully admit. And I love my fresh pressed coffee. But today, I'm missing Nescafe. And sweet tea.

It's a forty minute commute to work, and normally I'm thankful for the silence of the drive. I listen to sermons and music and as usual, my mind doesn't rest. But today I'm missing sun drenched paths and shouts of "Kasu-may!"

I'm back to my North American food, with lasagna for lunch and salad for dinner. But really, all I'm craving is yassa. I want that fresh fish and vegetables and rice with a group of people surrounding the dish.

I'm thankful for my hot bath. Yet I'm yearning for that bucket shower underneath the African starry sky.

I wish I could sit with everyone of you over a cup of coffee and share my heart and share my stories. 

Every day while in the village we had the opportunity to share Christ in conversations and actions and showing the Jesus film. I felt the love of Christ overflowing in my heart for these people; the moment I met them I wished I could in some way convey to them how loved they were. In so many ways they reminded me how loved I was: I was amazed at how God's character shone through their simple acknowledgement of every person who passes. They shake hands, greet with their greeting, and continue on. I wondered at what our lives would be like if we had that simple acknowledgement of those we pass that we matter. That we aren't just someone walking by. And I love that God thinks of us like that; He always stops. Always. 

We had the opportunity to lead unbelievers to Christ. And it was amazing to see the Lord bring healing to one of them, to hear that she was able to walk by herself after being unable to even leave the house without assistance. God is good, and faithful.

Every meal we ate there was shared. Fish and vegetables and rice were placed in a large dish, and five or six gathered around. (Except for that one time that we must've fed 100 children after one of the screenings of the Jesus film. There was that. I'll have to tell you about that one day, about seeing so many children crowded around multiple dishes and how in some way, it stirred our hearts in a way words can't describe). There was something simply profound about eating together. We've missed that in our culture, you know. We eat alone and we eat quickly and we forget how life wasn't meant to be done alone, but to be done together. We really should stop more, and just simply share a meal. I wonder how lives and families would be changed if we simply stopped.

I realized while there that there is a boldness in knowing you are there to serve and share with a purpose; I am wrestling with how to take that boldness home. How do I live my life as a witness to Christ not only in actions, but in words here, too? As we sat on one of our last days with the Believers in the village, we talked about how these Believers would be challenged in their walk. It wouldn't be easy, one of our team members sadly warned. And it wouldn't. When these Believers chose to change their lives, and follow the Lord and abandon all other fetishes and idols, their physical and societal lives were put on the line. It's not a battle of flesh and blood; it's a spiritual battle. They were wrestling with what it means to abandon all else and follow Christ, to truly live their lives according to the Word. It was a sombering reminder to me. It's too easy here, in our western world, to live lukewarm. Our lives may not be truly threatened. But how important it is that we too, live lives worthy of the calling placed on them. That we live our lives worthy of the One who died in our place.

As I am reflecting, and hopefully coming out of my jet-lagged state, I am prayerfully committing every precious moment to memory. You might know that I love talking about things that make my heart dance. Throughout this trip, so many things made my heart jump for joy. Conversations about love and faith and God's call for women. The full moon and stars. Reminders from strangers and new friends that God wants you to dream big and take those leaps of faith, that He creates your heart and hopes and dreams for a purpose far grander than you can imagine. 

I prayed to be a blessing to those I met, but I never imagined how much they would be a blessing to me too. I left a piece of my heart with those people, and I simply can't wait to go back.

Those Hands of Loss

It's at the top of the stairs I find myself falling, falling into the hands of loss. It finds me in these strange places. There is makeup to be put on, my bag to be unpacked, my rain jacket to be found. But I can't move. It always seems to be that in the moments when I least want to hear them that I do: I hear those memories echoing in the silence of a quiet house. I wonder at the pain it must bring to be a parent in an empty house, one that was never supposed to be empty. I wonder and hurt at the intense loneliness that this breaking brings.

My hand drops from the knob and I take the stairs. One at a time, I whisper to myself. That's all. Just one. step. at. a. time. And it's hard not to fall over, in this grip of loss, because it's only in these rare moments loss has its opportunity to stare at me face to face. Oh sure, it seems to always be there, but most days it seems more like an unwelcome companion.

It does not always have the boldness it has today.

And I walk by the boxes that fill the basement, and the boxes contain the memories that refuse to be left safely inside. Because there are journals open, with her scrawl across them, that remind me of that other life. There are letters and framed photographs that once graced the wall of a family home. They once told a story. And now their story is in a box, in a basement, hidden away.

And I stop walking. Because loss is too heavy. It stops me in my tracks, and I'm frozen there until the crunch of gravel in the driveway outside brings me back.

Because there's makeup to be put on, a bag to be unpacked, and a jacket to be found. And so I leave the journals and stories in their boxes. And I walk away.

Signs of Blessing, Too.

The sign welcoming us into my hometown appears before us, a beacon on a hill that I had driven by all my life. I'm excited to show one of my best friends where I grew up, giving her glimpses into the life I had before I knew her. We pass by one of the side streets, blocked off for construction, and I make a left by the restaurant, immediately feeling enveloped by the maple lined main street.

We make our way down the road, and I find myself pointing out landmarks as we turn onto the street where I grew up. I tell her of neighbours as we round the corner, feeling myself driving as if on autopilot. And then I see the large green evergreens, the pool peeking out from behind, and I feel my breath catch as I'm brought back to a lifetime ago. We get closer to our house, and I slow down, feeling my heart hurt as we approach. I study the grey siding, the new gardens in the back brightening up the large backyard. I see evidence of the new family that's moved in; the new deck, the different cars in the driveway. In every way it feels as if someone has taken over my life, has moved in while I was away. I swallow and pull the car ahead away.

We're silent for a little while, until I point out the place where my dad's childhood home once stood. I wave to an old neighbour and then we're driving past the public pool and I'm remembering T-ball games and babysitting trips to the park. As we turn back onto main street, heading out of the village, I feel the tears well in my eyes and I grip the steering wheel harder.

"I think what makes everything so hard," I hear myself say, "is that it feels like I lost my whole life." As the words leave my mouth, I feel her hand on my shoulder. "I know," she answers quietly, and I'm infinitely grateful for the absence of empty, sympathetic words.

I can feel my sorrow and grief entering into the car with us, and I sit with them for a moment. I feel the weight of sadness and my heart is heavy. As the maple trees disappear into my rearview mirror, I swallow my remaining tears and look ahead. "Please God," I feel my heart pray, "some day let those memories not just be signs of loss. Let them be signs of blessing, too."

Fighting for What We are For

"I'll give you $15 if you'll move to another seat so I can have these two to myself." I looked up from where I was sitting on the bus to see a six-foot woman, red hair and sharp bangs, tattoos across her arms, carrying two overloaded bags on her shoulders. She smiled brightly, and I looked back at this crazy woman. In my summer-cold, foggy brain state, I mumbled a sure, and got up, but then she said, "Well, maybe let's wait until we see if the bus fills up anyways or not."

The bus did fill up, with one space available in between two people squished into three seats at the back. She offered me $20 to move once the bus was on its way, but at this point I was settled and sick and grumpy and didn't want to bother.

So we sat next to each other, and somehow she started talking about her studies in psychology and her plans to become a sexologist of all things (her dyed red hair wasn't the only thing bold about her!). I heard her life story, from her parents' split when she was two to leaving home at 14 and living on her own. I heard how she become addicted to drugs and hit rock bottom at 21, and after two tries finally getting clean. She exuded this confidence about her - whether it was the way she was listening to the cranky old woman setting across from us, or the way she shared whatever she thought or felt without a care.

And then the questions began. "So you said you're a Christian, right?" she asked, a bit of an amused smile on her lips. "So does that mean you're - you're saving sex for marriage?" Her amusement wasn't masked, and when I answered her she just laughed. "But like, what about compatibility with one another?" And we talked some more about what I believed and valued and she defended and disagreed but then the book was closed and she was onto her next question.

"So what about homosexuality, then?" she prods. I am infinitely aware of the lesbian couple sitting right behind us, and I squirm in my seat knowing they can hear every word. "So you think it's wrong? You think God says it's a sin?" And I sigh and answer as best as I can, knowing that the line is being drawn and I'm being looked at as if I'm the craziest person she has sat next to on a bus.

"And so you think I'm going to hell if I don't believe what you believe then, right?" she continues in amidst her other questions. Her eyes give away her incredulity and I can't help but feel like in this conversation, something has gone wrong.

Because somewhere along the line I had begun to fight for what we as Christians are against instead of also fighting for what we are for.

What if, instead of explaining why sex before marriage is wrong, I had also defended why sex only within a marriage is good?

What if, instead of explaining why homosexuality is wrong, I had also defended why relationships between man and woman are good and whole and perfect?

I felt like everything I had said to her wasn't heard because in my defence of what was wrong I'd lost sight of what we are for. Maybe what we are against and what we are for go hand in hand - but sometimes when we are attacked it's easy to lose sight of both sides and focus on just one. Because what's right is just as important as what's wrong. 

As hard as that conversation was, I'm thankful I didn't take the $15. The lessons and the conversation and the doubts and the answers were worth far more than that.

When Being a Girl is an Insult

"Come on, girls," she shouts to the nearly all male baseball team from the sidelines, the annoyance clear in her voice. "Let's get it together." She offers a little chuckle, to lighten the insult, but beneath the laugh is the clear evidence of a type of thinking that was thought to have disappeared a century ago.

Earlier, another insult was hurled across the ball field, this time by one of the players at first base. As the ball came across the field, not close enough for him to make the catch, his response to the player at fault was, "Come on! You throw like a girl!"

I sat on the bleachers, hearing my femininity thrown around as an insult, as something inside my little heart broke.

Because since when is it okay to use who I am, a woman, designed in the image of my Creator, as an insult? Since when is it okay to admonish someone that they are less than they should be because they are doing something as a woman or girl would? Since when is it okay to use a male as a standard, and a woman as sub-par?

And most importantly, why are we still okay with this way of thinking? Why do we still allow those comments a place in our sports fields, and a place in our thoughts?

It has taken me years and years to just begin to hold my femininity in my hands and be okay with it. It has taken me a long time to see that as a woman, I hold beauty and emotions and a wonder that Christ has delighted in blessing me with. It's a challenge every single day to counter the lies that this culture tells that our beauty is found in an outward appearance or that as women, we need to throw femininity aside to be equal to men. As a woman, I am delightfully different than a man because we were designed that way. I am in no way superior. I am in no way inferior. I am equal, amidst our differences.

And so when I hear those insults echoing across a ball field, and echoing through this society, that kind of thinking breaks my heart.

Because we are beyond that. We are better than that. We have come so far in our understanding of who men and women are and who they were designed to be - and those insults? They should be a heartbreaking thing of the past. They should be no longer.

When Water Washes Away Your Words

When we had the flood in the basement, it washed away not only books, drywall, shoes and clothes, but it washed away something very precious. It washed away my words.

It was a blue journal, with purple binding along the side. On the front was a tree, raised leaves that I can still feel on my fingertips. I remember the moment in the bookstore, slipping it out of the bookshelf from among the myriad of others calling out for my attention.

In that journal were my words. It held words from the ending of my time at university, and the beginning of my trip to Africa. It held tears. It contained joy and triumph. Across its pages were the paintings I had created with my words, bits of my soul slipped in between the strokes and lines.

I long to live a life not only in the present, but a life that looks back, too. My journals let me do that. They let me see where I've come from, because as I see where I'm coming from I see where I'm going, too. I want to look back and see how life, how God, how people have shaped me. I want to remember who I was then so I can know more deeply who I am now.

The water stole my journal, blurring the words and marring the book with destructive mould. The book was slipped into a garbage bag with junk, the meaning and worth known only by me.  It shouldn't bother me as much as it does. I'm struggling to remind myself that the process of holding my pen to paper was just as important as the end result of the filled journal. I'm trying to remember, and be thankful for the fact that although water stole my words, it can never steal my voice.

{But still my heart is hurting a little bit to know those precious words have slipped away forever.}

Surpassing all Understanding

The other day I sat across from my doctor and listed the symptoms. Anxiety. Racing heart. Nausea. Shaking. 

Before he responded with his diagnosis, I could already hear the words he was about to speak whisper into my ear. Panic attack. And sure enough, seconds later, he proceeded to confirm what I already knew. We talked about options; we talked about a solution and thankfully, underlying his words was the reaffirmation that I needed to hear: you'll get through this.

The other night, as my mom sat across from me on my bed, and I recounted to her the conversation between my doctor and I, she frowned and put words to questions I too have wrestled with. "But I don't get it," she said. "How can you have panic attacks when you have the peace of God?"

And I sat, stumped by her question, because in all reality I just really don't know.

But tonight, questions stir in my heart because I wonder.

Does the peace of God mean the absence of anxiety? 

If there's anything my life has taught me, it isn't that Christ necessarily seeks to take away trials from us but rather He seems to want to walk through them with us.

And I just wonder, if even in the midst of a panic attack, His peace is found in the Hand that holds mine and gently whispers, "Breathe. You've got this. You'll be okay." And in doing so, those times of severe anxiety don't reflect a lack of peace but rather peace that surpasses all human understanding. Instead those times reflect the great presence of Peace.

I'm reminded of the verse in Exodus, "The Lord will fight for you. You need only be still." The battle was never averted but rather God promised to fight it for them. He was just as present in the midst of the battle as He would have been in its absence!

And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, His Presence and Peace are just as present in the midst of anxiety as they are in its absence.

Just a Little More Grace

The other day I got a text from a friend:

"So, any new year's resolutions?" 

I thought about it for a moment. The freshness of a new year brings new hope, new encouragement, the blessing that your actions will be fruitful if you just put your mind to it. The past year, the slate listed with failures is wiped clean, and the new year promises steps forward and no stepping back. It's the perfect opportunity to dream. To resolve.

But for me, I've learned not to mark the beginning of a new year with ways to change because I want my life to be one where I'm always changing, always challenging myself, and always growing.

So instead I choose my word. I choose a word that sums up what I want to learn this year and how I want to grow. Last year my word was wait, and without a doubt 2012 was a year of waiting. Sometimes painful waiting. But I learned patience, and I learned trusting in the waiting {but even then it will probably be a lesson I learn again and again through this life}.

This year my word is grace. Because it's in His grace that I am made new, and it's through His grace that I experience His love. It's in the grace that has been offered to me by His Church that I found the freedom to offer grace to myself. And I've been wondering what my life would be like if it was marked by the kind of grace that He offers me. 

What if I turned the other cheek more often than nought?

What if I offered forgiveness when it was least deserved, when it hurt so much to offer that grace that it made me cry?

What if I, in grace, held my mouth closed and only offered words of conviction when the Spirit led?

Grace. I'm learning that grace reflects Him, because we live in a world where grace isn't offered very much. We choose to give what's deserved. We chase after the one that's wronged us. And I just wonder what this life might be like if we all gave - and received - a little more grace.

So that's my word. Here's to a beautiful 2013, filled with challenges and laughter and tears and grace.

{Linked up to the OneWord community here.}

Sitting in the Graveyard

My heart is heavy tonight. It's still beating .... but it's bruised, and it's a bit battered, but it still beats. And I am listening to that sound, as if it is a lifeline, uttering a prayer of thanks with every new sound.

Because sometimes life is so hard.

And it takes leaving your country, your home, your family, your friends to be in a space where you can finally feel that. It takes losing all of the things that hold you up ... to be in a place where the only place you can land is in His arms.

It takes being in an unfamiliar place, I think, to finally venture into grief and let yourself feel. Because when you lose something, it's easy to walk around the grief, to stare at it, to wish it away, to pray it away, to lose yourself in the familiar because grief is anything but. 

But you can't bring building supplies to the graveyard. There's a season of life, when dreams have been shattered, and you have lost what you never thought you would, that you need to sit in that grief and that heartache. 

And although it's scary, and it hurts, I might have finally walked into that graveyard. For a long time I've sat and stared at it's gates, and there have been moments when I've dared venture in, but the truth is, being sad and feeling my grief is the hardest thing to do.

But I think I might be ready to sit. I think I might be ready to leave my building supplies behind and just sit in the graveyard. However scary and painful that might be.

Because I am reminded that however scary it might be, however dark it might seem right now, the sun will rise and illuminate even the darkest and scariest graveyard. I know, for my hope rests in Him, that there will be a time when the sun, in its beauty and glory, will remind me that I too can rise. 

Dear Younger Me

Dear younger me,

I find you on the floor in your bedroom, cuddled into the corner of your closet. You are holding yourself tightly; arms wrapped around your knees, your body curled into the fetal position. Your hair is damp and your moans illicit pain deep within my soul, for your heart is breaking, slowly, into tiny little pieces.

I sit beside you and see these pieces of your heart scattered around you. I see how you have felt a piece chip away every time your parents have passed each other by with silence and a mere nod; I have seen how pieces fell the day your mom packed up her things into bags and boxes. I know that your heart feels scattered right now: you are fragile, and are clutching to your heart's broken pieces as best you can. I wish I could tell you that a year changes things, and that your heart is put together as time passes, but sadly, the adage that time heals all wounds isn't true. Only God can do that, and His timing isn't ours.

I see that your lips are moving slowly, and I can make out your prayer. It's more of a cry, really, and I hear the desperation in your voice. You are begging God to take you home into His arms, to free you of this pain and darkness. Although you can't see it then, you will see that God answered your prayer; just not in the way you thought he would.

As you journey through the next year in your life, you will struggle every day. You will feel pain, some days more heavily than that moment in your closet. But what you will find is that in your pain, and amidst the broken pieces of your heart, God is your Home. He is your shelter; He is your strength. He doesn't leave nor forsake you. This will be a lesson you will have to learn over and over; and it's a painful one. But you will start to see how this is truth.

You will learn that it is in the broken places that we sometimes discover wholeness. It will take some time, but you will see that your pain has shaped you into a beautiful caring, loving individual. You will learn that what others intend for a curse, God intends for a blessing. Your pain has allowed you to feel more – for you are broken to be healed to be broken for others. You will find beauty in this brokenness, my love. I know you don't feel like it right now, curled into yourself on the floor in the closet. But you will. This I promise you.

Love always,

Your older self

Jumping into the abyss

I've been struggling since I got here in Africa. Most of the time, I am blogging about my daily activities here, instead of writing here at my normal blog. I've felt a bit lost since I've arrived, homesickness and culture shock wrapping themselves around me and making it incredibly difficult to adjust to my new surroundings. Today, amidst a bumpy morning filled with longing for home, I wrote this journal entry, which is a mishmash of prayers and thoughts. Who God is to me is growing so much larger - and I am learning, even amidst confusion and feeling lost. I am thankful for that today.

"What is it that I so badly want from home? Because really, do I even have a physical home? In that thought I think of Jesus, who had no place to rest his head.

I just long to feel myself. I long to feel confident, joy, peace. I long for my familiar faces I so love. I long for the freedom to be able to talk to strangers and have them understand me. I long for familiar food, familiar things that make me feel like I have a place in this world. I miss worshipping in a place where I understand the songs and words, where I feel part of a community.

I think I'm being challenged on my image of God. I see Him so much as an overseer, a director, an instructor. But I long to see Him as my Brother, friend, even moreso my Father. I always feel like there is a big gap between us, and consequently I feel like the closeness, that intimacy, is lost in that abyss.

What is that gap, God? How do I change that?

Maybe I need to be willing to jump into that darkness, that gap, and trust that He'll meet me in that in between.

I feel like here bits and pieces of me are floating. I feel like coming here maybe was sort of my jumping into the darkness. And I'm floating, but mostly I am feeling like I'm drowning. I am missing the sure ground under my feet. I am missing the light, the assuredness I felt. This gap, this space isn't fun or safe like I thought it would be. It's anything but. And I'm sorry, God, for that being true. For I once prayed that I longed to be stripped of everything familiar to have just You. And I suppose, deeply, I still want that. So hear I am, in a country far away, stripped of everything. And I'm terrified. I'm drowning. I'm searching for you. 

Why did I automatically assume that the removal of my life, my family, my friends, my comforts would mean finding you? Was I foolish enough to think that you can ony be found in a place of loss, in a place unknown? You aren't dependent on circumstances, or time, or place. You said to search for you with all of your heart and we would find you. Maybe searching with all of our hearts means losing famly and friends, home, security. But maybe, just maybe, you are more concerned with our hearts and that we are searching for you from wherever we are. 

I can't believe I didn't get that, God. I am sorry - but thank you for showing that to me now. Thank you.

It's okay to be missing home. It's okay to be missing family. It's okay to be missing my Thursday night dates wth my girls. All of this is so wonderfully okay.

Because what matters the most, here or at home, is that I am searching for Him with all of my heart. I can do that at home - and I can do that here. I can do that in the middle of a lecture or the middle of a staff meeting at work. I can do that here, in the middle of a busy, crowded, shouting marketplace. Wow.

Please, Jesus, protect me from losing sight of this - bury this truth deep within my heart, so deep it is permanently written across my heart."

Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart. And I will be found of you, saith the Lord: and I will turn away your captivity, and I will gather you from all the nations, and from all the places whither I have driven you, saith the Lord; and I will bring you again into the place whence I caused you to be carried away captive. (Jeremiah 29:12-14)

The Cry of the Crow

This morning I sat on the couch by an open window, and I heard the distinct cry of a crow. It wailed, it screeched, but most importantly, it would not stop. I looked out the window for signs of it sitting in a tree limb, but I couldn't spot it anywhere. The screeching continued, grating against my ears. I had half a mind to run out the front door and scare it far, far away from the front lawn.

And then something stopped me in my tracks and the way I heard the screeching changed. The crow's cry made me think of a human's wail. How often do we hear others pain or cries and at first response, see it as an annoyance? Seek to remove it as far away as we can from our comfortable life?

Maybe what we see as annoyance is really another's cry for help.

Maybe we miss others' cries for help because we're so focused on how it affects us.

And maybe we need to see each cry as a call to us as Believers, to care for the least of these.

Because really, that's what we're here for, isn't it?

"And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me." (Matt. 25:40)

"Remember this when you doubt ..."

On my MacBook, I have a little program called Stickies. I keep various notes, reminders, and Scripture verses there as a reminder. Today I was perusing the notes I've left myself there, and I opened up the pink sticky that is titled "Remember this when you doubt."

There is only one verse typed underneath. 1 Timothy 3:16:

"All scripture is inspired by God, and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness."


All Scripture.

That means not one word was spoken without God's Spirit behind it.

That means that every word is inscribed with His fingertip and carries life because He is the author. Every word.


And the enormity of this verse weighs upon my heart because these past two years I have clung to God's Words with every fibre of my being, even though they have caused me division and have forced me to choose between making people feel good or choosing the Words I believe to be true. I have been told that I am foolish to cling to Words which carry little meaning to the culture we live in. I have been told I am judgmental, religious, un-loving because I believe every Word Christ inscribed in Scripture. I have clung to those words when the world around me has told me that they are outdated, or that they leave too many "gray areas" for us to ever take them literally.

Believing that 'all Scripture is inspired by God' has been a hard statement for me to stand by. But I have chosen to believe it, and because it is truth every word I read in Scripture breathes life into my soul. Because it is truth, it is worth every hurtful word thrown at me. It is worth being considered foolish, because in reality, the Words inspired by God speak Wisdom into my heart.

They are inspired.


And they contain life.

Wrestling

Tonight my heart is full of questions. I am wondering about church, about traditions, about how we worship.

I am wondering where we've gone right and where we've gone wrong. I'm wondering where we've followed God's Word, and where we've strayed.

The truth is, although I've been taught all my life that there is something wrong with the traditional church, with a pastor, a congregation, and a building ... that we're doing it all wrong, completely unbiblical ...

Something in my heart tells me that's not entirely right either.

My heart reminds me of the ways I've been blessed by pastors. My heart reminds me of how I've been encouraged through sermons, how I've been blessed incredibly through corporate worship. How God has spoken to me again and again through church family.

And I am torn between what I've been taught ... and what I know to be true, if it is truth. How do we know? If we've all been doing it wrong since the beginning of gathering in churches, and if it is really all rooted in Pagan traditions, then who's been doing it right? If we've all been meeting in a way Christ never intended us to, then why hasn't He been more clear about how we're falling so far below the mark?

These words probably don't make much sense, but tonight my heart is full of questions. Full of sadness, too. Because maybe in the end it doesn't matter if we are meeting in a building or not. Maybe these questions are pointless and futile. Because ultimately, if our hearts and eyes and ears are focussed on Him, He will lead us and bring us to the place of worship He has called us to.

But still ... my heart is wrestling tonight, seeking His truth.

Finding Little Gems

Sometimes when I read the Bible I fall across a verse that glistens and shines like a little gem. It's hidden in between a mountain of other verses, but for some reason on that day, my eyes and heart will fall upon its words, and it's as if the words scream, "Listen to me! Here is wisdom! Take it, drink it in, impress it upon your heart!"

And today I found one of those gems in Proverbs (which, really is a book FULL of gems, it's like a crystal clear brook that you reach deep into and come out with shining, glistening stones!):

"The wisest of women builds her house,
but folly with her own hands tears it down."
(Proverbs 14:1)


These words mean a lot to me, for I have seen what happens when a house is torn down. I have seen what folly - both by man and woman - done by their own hands can do in allowing a house to crumble down, the house which was built with the very same hands with which it was torn down.

The same hands which tear a house down can build it up.

The same mouth with which we can bless one another can also curse and destroy.

"From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. 
My brothers, these things ought not to be so!" 
(James 3:10)

The same feet with which we can follow Christ can also turn and run away from Him.

"If we live by the Spirit, 
let us also keep in step with Spirit." 
(Galatians 5:25)


And my heart echoes the cry of James, my brothers, these things ought not to be so! May our hands build up instead of tear down; may our mouth bless instead of curse; may our feet follow Him instead of turning away.

Calling

Last night I settled into bed after watching an episode of Downton Abbey around a quarter to one. I was home alone, but managed to fall asleep without any worry or concern for the creepy noises that seemed to awaken my fears every so often. But around 2:30 am, I awoke after drifting in an out of sleep. It was as if something was gripping my heart, telling me that something was not quite right. It wouldn't allow me to fall back asleep, and fear and anxiety began to creep in to my heart. I flipped on the lamps beside my bed, sat up, and pulled my Bible onto my lap.

My mind waded through the people I could call to pray to assuage my fears and anxiety. No one was home, so it meant I couldn't go wake anyone up to pray for me. My mom was far away and not in her bed at home, and so I couldn't call her. My dad and brother were forty minutes away, and the friends I mentally listed off I didn't feel comfortable calling in the middle of the night to pray for me. (How I was reminded how different life is here than at Redeemer, where housemates were a few feet away, and friends were often up til 3 or 4 in the morning anyways, so a text for an urgent prayer was never an issue!)

And suddenly I felt incredibly alone, in a big empty house, with no one to call to pray for me. And so my fears settled in closer around me, my anxious heart taking big beats unaware as to what was wrong.

But just as quickly as the tears began to rise, beautiful words arose in my heart.

You shall call on the Lord your God and be saved. The Lord will fight for you - you need only be still.


And so I raised my arms high and called to the Lord my God, the one who would never be a phone call or a long drive away. I called to the One who lives with me whatever new home I find myself in, and the One who sits beside me as I sleep all night.

And He answered. And He fought. I read Scripture out loud and prayed over my room, and I put worship music on until I fell asleep.

I called and He answered, for He is faithful and will never suffer the righteous to be moved. Thankful for that today.