blog
i use my words
Jesus.Others. You.
I was raised—rightly—to put others first. But somewhere along the way, that distorted into putting myself last.
Which isn't good. I know. And it needs to change. But it's a struggle.
Maybe you can relate?
I'm unpacking my thoughts on (not) being third over at the new-and-improved Deeper Story today. Come check out the new digs and join the conversation...
The summer I turned 16, I spent two full months in rural Botswana, a landlocked country in Southern Africa. I was this city girl from Long Island who usually opted to pass a gorgeous day reading or watching TV. I had never been camping, and, quite honestly, I avoided the outdoors as much as possible. But there I was, spending eight weeks living in a tent, cooking over a campfire, and dealing with unimaginable amounts of dirt and insects—and I loved it. I remember sitting on the dirt floor of a hut constructed with mud, dung, and thatch, having a conversation with the Motswana woman who lived there.
The lines on her weathered face and hands told stories of a long and hard life.
younger-me-in-Africa
Her clothes were tattered, her shoes peppered with holes, and her simple home bare except for a few essentials. She welcomed us in warmly and apologized for not having chairs to offer us. After she served us tea, I watched her make her own using one of our already-used tea bags.
She joined us on the floor and, with the aid of a translator, we talked about following Christ. As she spoke, her smile lit up the dark, windowless home. Her face radiated joy and hope from a source deep within her, far below the surface of her outward circumstances.
This beautiful Motswana woman’s steadfast faith challenged and inspired me. I wanted my life to be marked with that same kind of unswerving trust.
I had gone to Africa with the hope of making a difference, and yet God was using Africa to make a difference in me.
So I kept going back, returning two more summers in a row. I knew that missions would be more than a short-term endeavor for me and felt God drawing me back long-term. Not because I thought I had something to offer, or wanted to do something courageous, but simply because I was convinced it was where I belonged. It felt like home. So at 19, I decided to just go and see what would happen. Because more clearly than I’d known anything in my entire life, I knew that God was calling me to live in Africa.
And regardless of how things ended 13 years later, with marriage and ministry dissolved, I still know that I followed God to Africa. Just as I know I followed Him through the painful choices to close and move back to the States.
I may be unable to reconcile God leading me to life and ministry in Africa with Him taking it all away, but—even if it's with tear-filled eyes and trembling hands—I can't deny that He was in both.
Unlike me, God was not surprised or caught off guard by the circumstances of my life. He didn't have to scramble to come up with a new plan and purpose for me. What feels to me like a “Plan B” is still the original story God is writing with my life.
While some days it’s easier to believe than others, I know that the Author and Finisher is still writing. He never needs an eraser or a backspace. He needs no editor, no second draft. He writes it perfectly the first time. And He finishes what He starts. No abandoned stories. No half-hearted attempts. He is writing my story completely. Thoroughly.
All the way to the end.
I am quickly skimming through my inbox when I see it. An unexpected name. I hastily open the message only to read—of course—a hateful remark. Teary eyes. Deep breaths. Conscious effort to stop the spiraling thoughts.
And I remember the truth I know so well: Forgiveness is a choice. It's time to choose it again.
{And it won't be the last.}
Frustrated with myself at first—Ugh. I shouldn't still have to pep talk myself to forgive!—I realize something. I haven't thought of the situation in a long time. Not like this. Not in a way that leaves me feeling hurt or betrayed or upset. Not in a way that reminds me I still have a long way to go in the forgiveness journey.
The things that have come up, oddly enough, have all been good. Appropriately reminiscent.
So while I may get annoyed with my seeming lack of progress when a "surprise attack" catches my heart off guard and requires conscious effort to forgive, I also have to acknowledge that the days, weeks, and even months that go by without even a second thought about it is a sure sign of progress.
And I am grateful.
Lifted eyes. Thankful breaths. More graciously—less gritted-teeth-fully—forgiveness is mine to choose.
And so I choose.
Again.
{And it won't be the last.}
My friend Mary DeMuth wrote a great post the other day about finding her blog's tagline. Hers, by the way, is "Live Uncaged". How amazing is that?! I love it. And it perfectly suits Mary.
She shared about her journey of arriving there, through years of blogging. And how she recruited people's assistance in the process.
"Last summer, I knew it was time to re-evaluate. So I went fishing (in an Internetty way). I asked my email distribution list, Facebook fans, and Twitter followers this question, 'When you think of me, what is the one thing you think of?'"
And it got me thinking.
I'm in the beginning stages of a blog redesign. {I know I've said this before, but I mean it this time. Hopefully.} And I'm going to relaunch under AleceRonzino.com {which was a painstaking decision to make, believe me}. I figured I would use some form of grit and glory in the tagline, but Mary's got me wondering about other possibilities.
So this is where you come in.
Would you answer a simple question for me? I'll even make it a fill-in-the-blank. So I guess it's not even a question then, is it?
How about you just complete this statement:
Alece helps people to _______________.
Any other thoughts you have are welcomed as well!
The past several years, I have felt a bit like a gypsy. I've lived for months at a time with different people—in Columbus, Ohio... Kennesaw, Georgia... Medford, Oregon... Nashville, Tennessee. Initially it was for what I thought would be a season of restoration in my marriage. Then he decided he was done—with counseling, with marriage, with me. I stepped back from ministry—even resigned my Board—and did almost nothing but engage in intensive therapy for about a year. Then I slowly got more involved in the ministry again, focusing on fundraising efforts. My "dark night of the soul" got unimaginably darker when the funding drought left us no choice but to close. I closed down the ministry in Africa and walked away from the only home/job/community/life I'd known since I was 19. Back in the States, I spiralled again into a deep depression, unable to find my smile or my hope or my energy.
Through all of this, friends graciously took me in, opening their hearts and their homes to me. I was always made to feel completely loved, welcomed, and part of the family for however long or short I was planted there. I'll never find words big enough for the gift that was to me in the midst of my most painful season. Thank you, loved ones, for caring for me so graciously and generously, continually extending yourself for me when I had nothing to offer in return. You held me up me when I didn't have strength to stand on my own, and you loved me loudly. I am forever in your debt.
Slowly but surely, some normalcy began returning to my life, and in the past six months, the remaining "big pieces" all seemed to come together. Finally. Since February, I've been sharing an apartment with a friend. Countless people reached out—passing along furniture, housewares, kitchen supplies, and filling this place with their love and generosity. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.
I was finally able to purchase a car, which I still thank Jesus for every time I get behind the wheel. All these years, the families I lived with were more than generous with their vehicles. But there is just something about being able to run to Target when I need to without asking permission or joining someone else's errand run. It's like I've reclaimed a bit of my independence that had been lost over the past few years.
And then just a couple weeks ago, my shipment from South Africa arrived. When we'd closed down the ministry, I was left with a house full of belongings and, well, life. The majority of it was given away or left with my ex-husband. But some of it was irreplaceable—like my entire lifetime worth of photographs, family Christmas ornaments, heirlooms that have been in the family for decades, childhood keepsakes...
So I bought space on a shipping container: the smallest amount of space you could buy, with the disclaimer that I would only receive it when the container filled up, by other people shipping to the same destination. The day before I left Africa, the movers came and packed up my "must-keeps". They said there was still room left in my allotted space, so I also packed up my African baskets (a prized possession), some artwork from my walls, and a few favorite kitchen items. When they said there was a lot of remaining space, they took a few random pieces of furniture just to fill it.
And two weeks ago, 20 months after I packed it up in Africa, my things arrived here in Nashville. Unbelievable! It feels so good to have some of my "former life" back. We quickly added baskets and signs and art all around the apartment, and it looks amazing. To look around and see glimpses of my old life mixed in with my new... Man! It's honey to my soul.
This gypsy is feeling more settled than I have in a long time. And, with Africa splashed all over my apartment, I feel more at home than I ever thought possible again.
Grateful is an understatement.
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