I have always known you

Quicker than I would have hoped; our destination appeared ahead of us. Our conversation fades and reality sets in a little deeper.

We have arrived.

Settled deep into the land there is a little blue farm house that is surrounded by different pastures.

The first thing to catch my attention is the front door. It bids a warm welcome with its deep rich red color, its an odd but fitting contrast to the color of the house. It looks worn to the eye at first, but considering the surroundings, its appearance merely suggests that it is a home. Not yet ours; but a home none the less.

Before our car even has a chance to stop, we are greeted by two barking dogs. All of sudden the quiet serenity of this little farm seems to be harshly broken. Situated behind the house is a small wooden barn and from it I see a tall individual emerge. Their hood is pulled over their head and slowly they begin to walk towards the stirring commotion. As quickly as the tension had rose, composure was found once more and the dogs were hushed with a few words from their owner.

In an attempt to avoid the rain and yet still bid a warm welcome to us, the individual only slightly pulled their hood above their eyes, and with genuine words we were introduced. It was when her eyes met all of ours that I felt as if I had always known her. She looked weary as if she had been hard at work all day. I quickly got the feeling that she was unaware of our planned visit, hence the frazzled look upon her face.

None of us knew that we would meet on that rainy afternoon, but God did, He planned for it.

After our greetings were exchanged and the situation explained, our conversation began to change. Within moments it was as if we were reunited friends, comfortable and joyful in each others presence. Soon our new friend began to share bits and pieces of her life story with us. All was vague, but still she shared with us, and along the way I began to pick up what I could and fill in the blanks. I stood there watching her story unravel before my eyes. She was an only child who grew up in this house, the walls know memories and the fields know the joy. There was so much of her intertwined within every part of this place, it was clear to see why she was so attached, this was a part of her that she was leaving behind.

As the story continued another reason for her attachment began to surface . . . her father. This was his house, and in his absence it had been all that she had to hold onto; all that she had left to remind her of him. Now I know. Now I see my friend, I see why its so hard for you to leave this place, the memories, the recollections of all you have ever known, it can’t be easy to walk away from it all. I understand, truly I do.

I stood there and my heart felt like a string had been attached to her, and I wondered why. God why to this person whom I may never again see in my life, a person who I’ve only known for twenty minutes and yet I feel like I’ve know her my whole life. I feel like I’ve been there with her through everything she’s told us about, like I’ve been there living her story with her, and yet why?

I didn’t plan this. I had no idea that I would have been standing here with this stirring in my heart at this moment. Yet God did.

He knew, and He knows even when I still have no answer to it.

As her story finished my eyes caught hers. And what I saw in her eyes I surely know was in my own; that ever-so familiar fear, the fear of the unknown. There we are, each one of us standing in the drizzling rain, face to face with an unknown reality, standing there without a clue as to what the future will bring.

Yet in it all I remember a hope for all of us; a hope that will hold us up when we eventually have to step into this reality and risk all we’ve known and been confortable holding onto. It’s a hope that knows when we walk with Him the new realities and changes that we face will never be enough to weigh us down.

Our farewell was long-lived as we all knew that we would probably never see each other again. And then I feel it again: that string tugs at my heart as we begin to depart.  I know its to remember her, to remember her story, to remember her in prayer because for whatever reason, God had orchestrated that time and place for that particular encounter.

With everything in me, I prayed that the words we spoke and the encouragement we were able to offer was able to blow hope into her soul, because I know it surely was blown into mine.

There’s never a void reason behind moments like those.

God knows . . . He always knows.

the reality in front of me

As we drive down the highway, scattered raindrops begin to hit the windshield. Yet we are lost in conversation, completely unaware.

The words that fill the air hold more weight than all of the details around us. The sound of rushing cars, the city street lights reflecting off every surface, the subtle hum of music in the background. All beautiful details and yet, right now they are unnoticed.

A weak smile forces itself into the reality that is in front of me. You would think by now I would be used to this; accustom to how it all goes. But the reality is that change is inconvenient. It is unwelcome because we are afraid of the unknown.

We are creatures of habit. We find comfort in regularity and routine, simply because we know what to expect.

It’s the small amount of comfort that our morning cup of coffee can bring, its the regular drive to and from our daily destinations, and in the faces and people that we are surrounded with everyday. Somewhere within it all there is is meaning. While me might even despise the monotony of it all, there still lies comfort in knowing that it is all constant and assured. 

In a world of constant change, we tend to reach out in hope to grasp anything that is definite and unfaltering. Therefore we tend to find comfort in routine and regularity, because as far as we can tell, it is one of the few things around us that is unvarying. 

Yet, when something out of the ordinary comes along and forces us to dig deep, it all suddenly becomes jarring. In a moment, all comfort and familiarity are gone and we are not quite sure what to do next.

The veracity of change, unfortunately, is that it is unavoidable.

The curious thing, however, is that in our everyday lives we experience change all the time. Yet  these small instances never seem to be quite as jarring or unsettling.

Perhaps it is not so much the change that we fear, but the fact that through it we loose our grip on familiarity and comfort.

Perhaps this is it more than anything . . .

tell your story, love

The music is pounding in my headphones, which makes me feel  like I am a world away. Yet as I look around, every part of me feels like I am here, relaxed deep in this chair, sitting amidst strangers, soaking up every detail, every ounce of warmth the building has to offer.

The noise in my ears fades and another song rises, this with a different mood than the last. It makes me think, makes me wonder about those who surround me. Sometimes I can see strangers and only see strangers. I miss seeing their stories, their lives, and when I take a moment to notice, its there.

Oh it’s there.

It’s all there.

Sometimes it’s just laced so deep that many don’t notice. And I know deep in my heart, that many has too often been me.

I don’t know what the words are but I see their mouths moving and I imagine. It’s a group of friends, laughing and enjoying simple time together. Amidst the group there’s two particular beings whose story was easy to catch a glimpse of. There he is, sitting across the group from her; a young lady, quiet, yet just as alive as the rest. He begins to talk and his hands dance wildly in the air, he’s happy to see her, I can tell. Finally, after finishing, his shoulders lowered and his fingers wrapped around the warm cup of coffee that was brought to the table. But through it all his eyes continually raced back to meet hers. He’s in love, you don’t need sound or words to know that. Soon the conversation between the group died down as they sipped their steaming cups of delight.

I smile and drift my attention to all of the others scattered across the room.

My music still beating in my ears. It feels like I am in a dream, like everyone around me is moving to the music. Moved by every beat and cue, all flowing together in time.

There’s a elderly couple sitting at a table near the window, and my heart melts when I see the gentleman make his wife laugh. She closed her eyes and when she opened her mouth you could see the laughter surround them. Then after she caught her breath she looked back at her husband and touched his hand. Oh how precious to have a love that makes you laugh, even after all that time. They carried on in conversation, relaxed and completely oblivious to the world outside. 

I bring the cup in my hands up to my mouth and sip slowly, determining whether my coffee has finally reached the perfect drinking temperature, and to my fine surprise it has. Then all of a sudden my attention is beckoned towards the door as a little bells dings and announces the arrive of another guest. Through the door a young lady walks in. As she closed the door behind her she stood still for a moment and seemed to breathe it all in. A wave of settlement seemed to quickly replace the look of the haste on her face. She looked relieved, as if she had returned to a familiar place. She ordered her drink and then settled into an available chair. From her bag she pulled out a worn book and opened it to a particular page, seeming to continue right where she left off. Within seconds she blended into the rest of us, content and settled in this beautiful place.

As I continue to sip my coffee, I feel something stirring inside of me. Then, it starts to show up. Slowly, but its there. And when it does, I see it clearly and I take a deep breath. I feel the weight of it deeply, yet it soothes my soul, and I let it move me the way it wants to.

Even without words, these people don’t seem so much like strangers anymore.

We are, every one of us, just like them.

We wait, we dream, we chase the right words. We sip slowly, wanting to taste every moment, clinging to the way it warms us and in a way touches our souls. And so we sip slower, in an effort to hold the moments like these just a little longer.  

Amidst all the others, there is another girl, her own story being told. She hides amidst the peaceful chaos, content in the moment she’s found. Her keyboard is her confidante, and she’s absorbed in a world of words.

She spends her days watching, writing, waiting…

Years ago, she heard a voice when there was only darkness. It was, to her, a promise that she would never be alone again.

Eyes heavenward, she drank it deep, savored it fully, and let it bring her the life-breath she was gasping for.

And even now, she remembers. 

And above all else, she chooses to believe it.

“Tell your story, love. And when you do, they will certainly hear theirs…”

an uncomfortable voice

Challenged: that’s the word that pounds in my chest and shouts in my head. I mean really challenged.

Sometimes it seems like too often we use this word and it never gets us anywhere. We can say that we are “challenged” but we are never really moved, we can be “challenged” but never really shaken, at least not to the point of response. Yet how can we be challenged in and by faith without responding?

Faith cannot have a non-response.

Either we accept the challenge, the invitation to be used by God, or we push it aside. Ultimately, its a choice between what's comfortable and what's uncomfortable.

This morning I received an email that shared the newest post from one of the blogs that I follow. Often times I dismiss them because the posts are so long to read. Yet this morning, unintentionally, I happened to click on the email, and when it opened I was immediately immersed; completely captured by the words . . . this is what she wrote. . . 
 

I am not going to lie.
When your kin comes knocking on your own back door — come to ask how that trip to Haiti went — how can you look them in the eye and lie?
How can you lie still when babies are drowning in a sea of poverty?
How can you not scream?
I tell Mama that I think I’m angry.
Mama sits down.
And I pace, this hunting for words for the indescribable. And it comes out haltingly, that I think if I open my mouth, it will come right out, this roar. This inhumane, howling moan that only the Spirit can make any sense of…
Angry? She says.
And there’s no holding this tattered roar back.

I’m angry at sin that smothers children and selfishness that steals human dignity and apathy that infects the hearts of the comfortable. And I pound my own chest.
I’m angry at me.
Angry at how much I want comfortable more than I want Christ.
Angry at how much I want to forget that grimy boy leaned over a garbage heap, wiping his fingers along the inside of food tray, looking for anything left. I’m wildly angry that I want to forget the struggle of the poor so I can pin the next pretty idea on Pinterest.
I’m angry that I’ve seen and I’m ashamed that I am angry and I’m angry that I’ve seen and now I am responsible. More than response-able – we’re response-bound. Once we have seen the poor, we are responsible — we will make a response. As long as your heart is beating, there’s no such thing as unresponsive. We all look into the face of the poor and it’s either Yes, I will help. Or no, I won’t.
There’s no getting off the hook.
Faith cannot have a non-response.
We’re either responding with indifference or with intercession, either with apathy or aid.
You can’t look into the face of the poor and just plead the fifth amendment. Your life is always your answer.
I feel sick that I feel so angry.
Sick that I want to Pin with abandon, that I don’t want to be a witness, that I want someone else be an uncomfortable voice for the poor. Sick that six weeks from now I can grow cold and forget. I have.

Why do Christians make their lives tell all these half-truths?

How long can you walk around feeling like you have whiplash? Is heart whiplash what you need to wake your heart up?

Why would we rather turn a blind eye to the needy than turn to the needy and be like Christ? Do we like our own wants and comfort more than we want to be like Christ?

-   -   -

 

If the grace of my life is mostly where I am born, and I am born again into the family of Christ, than how can my life birth anything other than a grace that gives?
It’s what I found right here in Haiti: it’s all in the end a gift and a gift never stops being a gift, it’s always meant to be given, and it’s all by His grace alone and I bend my stiff neck and I’m wrecked and everything gives way.
Why do good things happen to people who happen to take all that good for granted?

I am so angry and so much at me.
When you are born again into the Kingdom of God, how can you ever again forget your kin? Part of the solution to poverty is doing whatever it takes to get your heart to stay with the poor.
There may be miles between the rich and the poor, but how can there be distance in the family of God. 
 

Challenged.

Challenged to respond.

Challenged to live in the uncomfortable.

Challenged to want Christ more than I want comfortable.

 

“To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in His steps.” 1 Peter 2:21

into the mess

Before I began blogging, I was clueless as to how many blogs were actually written by young adults. There is inspiration to be found in many of them, especially when you find other bloggers that have the same perspectives and beliefs as you.

But, while it may be encouraging and even inspiring to read their stories, sometimes I walk away feeling like there is an expectation to meet. After seeing what seems like, consistently splendid daily lives, it can feel like I too must meet this expectation for my own blog; or more prevailing . . . I then feel like I must meet this expectation in my own life.

And I choke, because my every day life begins to feel too small compared to the expectation.

Recently I read a blog post from a friend, and she include a quote from another blogger that said,

This has been on my mind lately. In the blogging world, we all have a tendency to make life look glamorous and easy and beautiful. And, at times, it is. But, at other times, life is not. Life, quite a lot of the time, is embarrassing, awkward, hard and just...well, not pretty.

Life, quite a lot of the time is not a reel of splendid scenes. Its hard and challenging, its raw emotion and its troublesome at times, it gets confusing and awkward, it can be embarrassing and uncomfortable, but its real, and its okay.

The expectation that life has to be prefect is far from reality. Life is a beautiful mess and we are learning through it all. God knows that we aren’t perfect. . . He doesn’t expect us to be. He does, however, expect us to strive to be more like Him and to be transformed into His likeness. He knows that things can get messy and  He loves us so much that he enters right into the mess with us. He doesn’t wait until things are tidy and perfect, because He knows that we are human, and perfection is simply unattainable.

The call to Christianity is not the call to be perfect. It’s a call to follow the One who is perfect and aim to be more like Him each and every day.

Life is not always picture perfect or ideal, and hardly do we live at a place of constant, blissful contentment. Life is often mundane and routine. Some days are just plain boring and others can be so tiresome. Yet the miracle of it all, is that our God remains the same. He is in the midst of the wearisome and ordinary. He is constant.

In an attempt to end all of these thoughts, I remember a post that another blogger shared. This part of the post seems to sum up my rambling thoughts: 

To adore the one who created the Heavens and the Earth, to give thanks for who He is and all He has given, to worship and commune with Holy God, whispering in the quite, clinging to the noise, believing in all circumstances – this is what makes a life large.  

Finding joy in Him, in a day that goes all wrong, this is the miracle.