the one where i put it all out there

People have told me I was brave for moving to Africa when I was 19. But I didn't feel brave. I'm pretty sure it was more foolishness and naivety (with a little faith mixed in) than it was bravery. I didn't look at what I was doing as being anything special. It was frightening in some ways, sure. But I wasn't setting out to be Mother Teresa. I didn't think I was embarking on anything pat-on-the-back worthy. I was simply following my heart. And outsiders called that bravery. Courage.

I'm sitting here tonight with a lump in my throat.

Moving home from Africa after 13 years is demanding far more courage than it took to move there.

More courage than I have.

I am most certainly not brave. I cry painful, ugly tears at the thought of needing to make a whole new life for myself. The smallest of things feel insurmountable to me right now. And the biggest of things... Well, they sit heavily on my chest and make it impossible for me to breathe.

Like a landslide, the only dream I've ever had just completely washed away. I didn't have a "back-up plan" tucked in my pocket for a rainy day. I didn't have a secret wish of "If I weren't a missionary, I'd do THIS with my life". I was doing exactly what I always wanted to do.

And now it's gone.

I feel as though my heart may not have another dream left in her.

I am scared. And I feel alone (even though I am well aware of the amazing people God has given me in my life). And my heart feels hollow.

Dreamless.

Passionless.

Paralyzed.

I've been told to embrace the idea of a clean slate. The world is my oyster. I can do anything I want to do.

While I appreciate the heart behind those statements, please---I beg you---spare me the rhetoric. Please hang onto your two cents and your platitudes. It's not as easy as just "deciding what I want to do next". Maybe it should be. But it isn't.

I want to dream again. I want to hope. I want to breathe in deep. I crave it... but I also fear it.

I need courage to face my fears. To trust one more time. To hope again.

I need to courage to speak. To be vulnerable. To be really me.

I need courage to put one foot in front of the other. To believe it's going to be ok. To look for His hand.

I need courage to grieve. To bury. To walk away.

I need courage to embrace wholeness. To dream again. To start over.

I need courage.

I. Need. Courage.

something's gotta give

Two years ago, when my husband confessed to an 18-month affair, I didn't think things could get any worse. And then he filed for divorce.

And I had to close the ministry I launched 13 years ago.

And I had to give up my home, my car, almost all my possessions, and move back to America. Where I currently am living out of a suitcase, in people's guest rooms, with no income and no plan.

I'd say Transition has slapped me around pretty good.

And, the bully that he is, Transition won't leave me alone.

Change is my only constant. And I've gotta be honest...

I hate it.

It makes me want to scream. It makes me cry ugly tears. It makes me want to cuss.

I've lost so much -- am still losing so much -- to unrelenting Transition.

And -- sigh -- I don't think I've handled it very well. I haven't carried myself very gracefully through these changes.

I'm pretty sure I allowed Transition to steal my faith, hope, and joy along with everything else.

Something's gotta give...

I ended 2010 so ready to kick the year to the curb. But at the stroke of midnight, things didn't miraculously change.

And now, I find myself looking around, wondering where's the "new" in the new year. Everything's still the same. Only the calendar's different.

Transition's still taking a wrecking ball to my life. Hope still seems scarce. Tears I didn't know I had left, keep coming. The hard days continue.

And I know they will.

So I made the decision to look for God's hand in the midst of the hard.

My eyes have been blindfolded by Transition for too long.

I want to actively search for God in my brokenness. Seek out His beauty in my pile of ashes. Face the continual tide of change on my tip-toes, looking for God where I haven't seen Him before.

I haven't quite mustered up the strength to steal back my faith, hope, and joy. But I'm at least going to start looking for them. Which is more than I've done in a long time.

I can't stop change from coming. I cannot.

But I can choose to remember that He holds my ever-changing life in His never-changing hand.

Take that, Transition.

Originally posted as a guest post on Refine Us >

when life is hard

Life is hard right now. I let out a "Heh" (with an eye-roll) as I write that, because "right now" has spanned the past two years. No, make that four years. But my immediate right now is still just... really hard.

It's dark. Dry. Barren. Cold. Unrelenting.

I've endured more transition in these few years than I could ever imagine facing in a lifetime. An unfaithful spouse. A divorce (which still isn't final). The forced-closing of the ministry I pioneered. The loss of my home. Moving back to America after 13 years in Africa.

And those are just the big things. Each one brings with it a myriad of "small" losses and griefs and heartaches. Even now, I feel a thousand aches from the thousand small things that happened this week alone.

I've been through the ringer.

The trouble is? There's still no end in sight.

My days remain filled with the details of closing Thrive. Thirteen years, sixty staff members, thousands of supporters, and a ministry that spanned two continents doesn't wrap up easily.

And as each loose end gets tied, I have yet another breakdown. I feel like I should be grateful for the bit of relief and closure that comes with each segment of finality, but instead... they just rip open the raw wound of my broken heart.

Again.

I have lost everything.

And in some moments I feel like "everything" includes my head. And my heart.

I've lost me.

And I'm not quite sure how to find me again. I'm not even sure I have enough fight left in me for the search.

So it was with agonizing tears that I committed to look this year. To look for hope. For light. For Him. For me.

To look for life.

It hurts just to open my eyes. The sting of grief and the brace for more disappointment makes me wince. But I told Him I'd look. Though it hurts. Though I may not like what I see. Though I may be scared... I will look.

And He assures me I will find.

I'd settle for feeling found.

a thousand deafening decibles

I don't have words for so much of what I'm dealing with and attempting to process through. I know some will misinterpret my silence on certain things to mean a lack of feeling or caring (I know, because some already have). And to that all I can say is... Usually the hardest, most deeply-felt things, are those I simply cannot talk about. Do with that what you will.

I went to South Africa last month for a couple weeks. I was there for our final week of ministry. I packed up my home. I said heart-wrenching goodbyes.

And in between all of those things, the greatest heartache I've ever known steadily grew.

Even now, I can't even just think about that time in Africa without tears overflowing down my face. It's just too hard. It's just too much.

I don't think I will ever be able to explain to a solitary soul all the layers of hard that were in those two weeks. Or anything that's taken place since then.

It makes my breath catch painfully in my throat. It feels as though someone is sitting on my chest. I can hear my heart pouding in my own ears.

Breaking hearts are anything but quiet. Under the surface at least...

Every shatter, every crack, piercingly resounds, echoing over and over again.

So know that for every second of my silence, there are a thousand deafening decibles resonating from my broken heart.

And because it's trapped inside, it reverberates around the hollow shell of me.

It's crazy-making.

And I wish I could deaden the sound...

The sound that only I can hear.

deepest of heartaches

Tears are streaming down my face... My heart is in my throat...

And I feel like throwing up.

Again.

All I can say is... Thank you for your prayers. And for simply letting me know you're there...

: : :

Read the complete partner letter here →

A Note from Our Founder

As you’ve been aware while walking this road with us, the past two years have been extremely difficult for Thrive. We have encountered significant challenges that far exceed any other obstacle we’ve overcome in the past 13 years of ministry.

In spite of every effort to raise funds, our financial support has continued to dwindle. For the first time since our inception, we’ve found ourselves unable to sustain our basic operating expenses, for multiple months in a row.

Last month the Board of Directors came to the point of needing to make the most difficult decision we’ve ever made. We will officially be closing our operations in South Africa at the conclusion of the ministry year.

I am thankful that the closing of Thrive doesn’t mean a ceasing of the vital work we have been doing. We are supporting the launch of a new ministry, Ignite South Africa, through several of our staff members who will carry on large aspects of our programming.

I ask that you prayerfully consider continuing your partnership with us through April 2011. Incoming finances will be used to provide our indigenous ministry staff with severance pay and clear Thrive’s operational debts. It is our desire to finish strong and honorably in every way, and we need your help to do that.

We have much to celebrate and rejoice about as we look back at over a decade of ministry together in Africa. God has done incredible things, and you have been a vital part of that. Thank you for allowing Him to use you to bring the light and hope of Jesus to so many.

I so appreciate your ongoing prayers for me, our entire staff team, and everyone whose lives are deeply impacted by this transition. Thank you for everything.

With love, thankfulness, sorrow, and hope, my heart still believes...

God is good.

Read the complete partner letter here →