my words around the web

I haven't been a very consistent blogger lately. (And of course by "lately" I mean "the past couple years". But, whatever. Semantics.) But over the past few months, my words have found a home in various corners of the web that you may have missed.

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Like my post for Deeper Story on "his affair being my fault" —

“How do you think you contributed to his affair?”

I swallowed hard and blinked back tears, to no avail. They were quickly streaming down my face.

She leaned forward with an I-didn’t-mean-to-make-you-cry look in her eyes. “Oh, why are you getting upset? I know he made the choice to have an affair. But there had to be a reason he looked outside the marriage. Why her? What was she offering him that you weren’t?”

Read the rest here >>

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And my post for Prodigal Magazine on the false promise of abstinence —

Abstinence was drilled into me as a young girl. To the point where it was implied (and at times, even directly said) that sex was bad. At the same time, like a dangled carrot, I was taught that if I wait (because that’s what ‘true love’ does), then sex in my marriage would be amazing.

At the right time, with the right person—in a marriage relationship—sex would be good. It would be better than good. It would be incredible. Easy. Passionate. Fulfilling.

And so I waited.

Read the rest here >>

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There's also the interview I did with Jeff Goins for his podcast —

Jeff wrote briefly about my decision to move to Africa in his book Wrecked. In the podcast, I unpack my story some more, talking through my thoughts on commitment, being wrecked, and dealing with life not working out the way we plan (or hope).

Listen to my interview >>

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 Happy April, Gritty friends. 

happy place

City, mountains, water... the perfect trifecta.

I've spent the past week in Vancouver, and my soul has loved every minute of it. Have you ever been up in this corner of the world?

This is my first time here, and I hope it won't be my last. It is stunning in every possible way.

What are you drawn to when your soul needs to breathe? A bustling city, a forrest trail, a gorgeous beach, mountain vistas, a quiet sunroom...? Or, like me, a mix of a few?

If you close your eyes and go to your happy place, what does it look like? Take us with you...

push.

Brené Brown says it best:

"Faith isn't an epidural. It's a midwife who stands next to me saying, 'Push. It's supposed to hurt.'"

THIS. 

This is what I wish I'd learned in church growing up. This is what I now know the faith-journey to be. And yet this flies in the face of the breed of Christianity I was raised in.

Faith was a balm. Salvation was a rescue plan. Jesus was a Savior from all things hard and uncomfortable and icky.

And then life happened.

And I discovered none of that was true.

Jesus didn't come to immunize me against pain or grief or heartache.

He didn't wrap me in bubble wrap and send me on my holy way, safe from harm and hurt. He didn't say I wouldn't (or—gasp!—shouldn't) grieve, be uncomfortable, battle illness, or face insurmountable hardship. He didn't promise that things would be easy or fair or fun.

What He did was assure me that I would never be alone.

God came down to the messy hell-hole that this life can be and chose to sit in it with me. He's right here, sitting cross-legged beside me in the dirt.

He's not trying to fix anything. He's not spouting platitudes—"Let go, and let Me. I'll work all things together for good."—{GAH!}—or even trying to make sense out of the senseless. He's just being present with me. Holding my hand and my heart. And assuring me I don't have to do this alone.

I'm not spared. I'm held. 

When I stop looking for Him to deliver a wonderdrug or bippity-boppity-boo me into a blessed life, I'm able to recognize the gift of His simple presence. His simple, powerful, heart-strengthening, more-than-enough presence right here with me.

Push. 

It's supposed to hurt.

And then I realize what it means to love like He does. What it means to be Christ to you as you face your own darkness and grief.

It doesn't mean pretending to have answers or presuming I can fix things. It certainly doesn't mean telling you what you should or shouldn't be doing.

It means simply being willing to sit in the pain and discomfort with you. And just be.

What I can do is assure you that you won't be alone while you push.

in my after life

My life today looks drastically different than it did 5 years ago. I don't mean in the sense of growing older and the natural progression of life and circumstances. I'm talking about huge, radical changes—like living on a different continent with a new future after the old one disappeared like a shaken up Etch-a-Sketch drawing. The enormous chasm of a three-year hell has left my life unavoidably split into Before and After.

Swallowed up in The Chasm is a pile of hopes and dreams, a life I once lived, and relationships lost. And part of my new After life is a grief that will always linger close. Grief not only for what was lost and what will never be, but also for the bankruptcy of those who've known me on both sides of The Chasm. So many people in my life now didn't know me "back then". They only know my now-stories (however few and far between) of life in Africa, as a wife, as a missionary.

I miss being known wholly.

My past, my journey, my loves and losses and joys and sorrows—all of it—are still the fabric of who I am, regardless of how different I may be in my After life. Even when it's hard for me to see it. The shortage of others who can recognize that as well somehow makes it easier for me to forget.

I got an unexpected note from an old friend recently. She was, like me, a ministry Founder, pouring her heart and soul into the soil of hearts in Southern Africa. She, unlike me, still is. And she sent me a message out of the blue that basically said, "I still see you. You still matter to me. I believe in you and am proud of you. And your life still has value and purpose, though different."

Reading it, the tears flowed.

She knew me in my Before life—young me, back when my eyes were filled with passion and vision and fire.

She knew that me—the me I now feel such a fraction of. And, with written words and photographs, she has followed my journey through The Chasm into my After, and she still sees me despite all the differences. She sees congruencies where I see only contrasts.

Reading it again, the tears washed away some of the blur.

With fresh eyes, I can now see that my life is not Before then After. It is Before and After.

Once again, I am forced to live in the tension of the ampersand. Not one or the other, but both. I am the sum total of it all, even here and now in my very much After life.

The same is true for you—no matter what your journey has held, how your story has played out, or how deep The Chasm has been. You are not the product of one isolated portion of it. You are the grand, courageous, magnificent, formidable total of it all.

That "and" means you and I are stronger than we think.

the false promise of abstinence

Abstinence was drilled into me as a young girl. To the point where it was implied (and at times, even directly said) that sex was bad. At the same time, like a dangled carrot, I was taught that if I wait (because that's what 'true love' does), then sex in my marriage would be amazing. At the right time, with the right person—in a marriage relationship—sex would be good. It would be better than good. It would be incredible. Easy. Passionate. Fulfilling.

And so I waited.

Partially for the right reasons and partially out of fear. Fear of becoming damaged goods... Fear of messing up God's perfect plan... Fear of disappointing the man I hadn't even met yet... Fear of sex itself: the big, bad, ugly thing it was made out to be.

Then I got married.

And on my wedding night, those fears occupied the bed with me and my husband. They overcrowded and overpowered the room... the mood... me. The anxiety gave way to tears which gave way to more anxiety which gave way to, well, no sex. It just didn't happen.

I mean, how could it? I was terrified. Ashamed, even. I didn't know how to flip the invisible, internal switch from SEX:BAD to SEX:GOOD.

It took a while for me to get there. And, if I'm being painfully honest, I'm not sure I ever quite did. Sex and intimacy were always challenging for me throughout my decade-long. It still felt immoral in a way. Scandalous—as though I wasn't allowed to enjoy that which I'd saved for this very context.

The promise of abstinence leading to a great sex life in marriage felt like a cruel mirage. A ploy. A lie. A deception.

And now here I sit, single-again... Contemplating sex and abstinence in a different light, given the past few years of my life. In fact, this post has been sitting in my drafts folder since 2010, born out of a conversation with a friend—scribbled thoughts that I've been hesitant to formulate or to fully own, since I'm not entirely sure where they're going, if anywhere at all. And also because I don't want people to hear that I'm anti-abstinence—because I'm not.

I still believe that saving sex for marriage is what God intended and is ultimately best for us. But holding to that truth does not mean:

• That having sex before marriage leaves me damaged and unable to have a healthy sex life with my spouse.
• That saving sex for marriage guarantees a healthy sex life with my spouse.

Holding to that truth does mean:

• That I believe God can redeem all things.
• That a healthy sex life, like all forms of intimacy, takes hard work, honest communication, and vulnerability.

While I wish I'd understood that holistic perspective a few decades ago, I find myself still grappling to understand it now. Somehow, it's as though the myths are easier to believe, or at least easier to live life by. (Fear can be a powerful motivator.)

I figure a good starting point to freedom and healing is to talk about it. And so as I keep staring at this blinking curser, taunting me to find a way to finish this post, all I know is this:

I want to be fueled by love rather than fear.

In this thing.

In all things.

Originally posted on Prodigal. Read the comments there >

from me to you...

Emmanuel: God with us (DS)

"Give us an advent spirit," he whispered as he ended his prayer for our meal. And as we picked up forks and drinks and napkins, that phrase kept bumping around inside me. And it bumps still. I don't feel expectant or joyfully waiting, and so I'm struck by those words. Give me an advent spirit.

The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas have always been my favorite time of year. No matter which side of the ocean I was celebrating on, I waited expectantly all year for the sights, sounds, and smells of this beautiful season.

But that was before the darkness creeped in, marring my whole world and tainting even the holidays I loved. Now this time of year feels like labored breathing. It's exhausting. Hard. Like I'm just waiting for it to end instead of wishing it would linger a while longer like I once did.

This year, I've been intentional to remember my power to choose. And right now more than ever I'm forced to remember that joy really is my choice. No matter the circumstance or the feeling. And while the holidays aren't as sweet or as magical as they once were, I can still choose to find joy within them.

There's a reason we sing, "O tidings of comfort and joy." Somehow, the two hold hands.

And so I put lights on the wooden giraffe by my front door. I placed a nativity on my mantle. I strung lights into wine bottles strewn about my apartment. I stare often at my star-topped tree that stands as a beacon of light, pushing back the darkness. Comfort and joy.

In the words of Elisabeth Elliot—"Joy is not the absence of suffering, but the presence of God."

And what better time than right now to take comfort in that. To allow my heart to breathe, to hope, to anticipate. Because no matter what, God's presence abides...

Emmanuel. God with us.

And because He is here, I can choose joy.

For those, like me, who find the holidays uniquely heartsore, will you join me in choosing to discover joy and comfort in the presence of God, made visible in a manger filled with hay? Let's "lift our eyes", being purposeful to not only seek but also to be comfort and joy.

And for those who love this season, will you be intentional to remember that it is bittersweet for many? Open your eyes and hearts to see the heartsore among you. Extend invitations. Hug tightly. Through you, others can be reminded that God sees and knows and cares.

God is with us.

Comfort and joy, friends...

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

on failing well

i heard catherine rohr once say, “failure is really redirection.” that is so powerful, if only i could find a way for my heart to really grab onto it. ::

i feel like i fail a dozen times a day in a dozen different ways. while some of it is genuine mess-ups, some of it—i know—is really just that sense of not-enough-ness that hangs over me like a cloud. (i close my eyes and see that dirty little boy in the charlie brown movies—what's his name??—the one with the dust cloud that follows him everywhere.)

if i could really grasp failure as redirection, maybe just maybe that cloud would lift some...

::

not redirection to avoid what i’m facing. but rather to deal with what’s going on in my heart as i face it head on.

::

the old testament has always given me a great deal of hope. i think it's partially because those we consider men and women of faith have so much failure throughout their stories.

it makes me remember that they didn’t see themselves as people of faith in the way that we do now, gifted with the ability to look at their lives in their entirety. i bet they were just like me and—right in the midst of their grit—found themselves wondering if God could redeem their failures.

because we see their stories all the way to the end, we know He can.

i need to remember that He can see my story all the way to the end, and trust that He can redeem mine too.

::

perhaps failing well means choosing to trust that the story isn't finished—that the Author is still writing.

today was one of them

[credit]

thankful for YOU!

wall of thanks

My Thanksgivings the past few years have looked (and felt) very different than they used to. Granted, I've celebrated most Thanksgivings of my adult life across the ocean in a country that doesn't even recognize the holiday. But it didn't matter. We made them uniquely special, and always a memorable celebration of giving thanks.

My favorite tradition is one I began in Africa. Every year, we build a Wall of Thanks.

I place out Post-it notes and markers, and throughout the day, people write down things they are thankful for and post them on the wall.

I always make multiple trips to the wall—to read and to add more things I am grateful for—and love watching others do the same.

It is heart-filling to stand and read the gratitude plastered on that wall. Deep, meaningful, significant things as well as the humorous, inside-joke-only kinds of things.

The wall stands as more than a list of what we are collectively thankful for. It holds memories, hope, promises, truth. It holds what was and may never be again, but also what will someday be. It holds the joy of loving and being loved. It holds... me.

And this altogether new and different and somewhat strange Thanksgiving, I'll surely have my Wall of Thanks yet again.

Will you join me?

Maybe it's a new tradition you can start with your own loved ones. And together we can build our Wall of Thanks wherever we are...

If you post pictures of your Wall or your Post-its, I wanna see them! Tag me on Facebook—and on Twitter and Instagram, use the hashtag #WallOfThanks, so we can celebrate with each other.

No matter what is going on in our lives—no matter the season we've just endured or are currently crawling through—we can choose to say "Thank You" to the One who understands even when we don't.

And please know this... YOU, my Gritty family, will certainly be a Post-it note on my Wall of Thanks.

Will you join me with your own Wall of Thanks this year? What's your favorite Thanksgiving tradition?

autumnal hope

Hands down, autumn is my favorite season. And I'm fairly certain October is the most perfect month. I love the rich, bold, warm colors of fall. The landscape comes alive like a wildfire, and my heart catches some of the sparks. Bright blue chilly skies contrast the golden hues. The temperature is just right... Sweater-weather.

Cinnamon and cloves and all things pumpkin dance through the crisp air. Autumn just smells warm and inviting. Like homebaked apple pie. Gingerbread latte. Chai tea. Chicken tortilla soup.

But mostly, I love autumn for its symbolism. The vibrant colors come alive in the process of dying. Leaves fall. Days grow shorter. The dark, overcast, cold days of winter are slowly creeping upon us. But the trees don't surrender without a statement.

Even in the dying—of dreams, of hopes, of relationships, of seasons—there is still beauty. There is beauty in the brokenness. In the transition. In the change.

The new life of spring actually begins with the dying leaves of autumn.

And the leaves' final shout of stunning color helps me to never forget.

What's your favorite season? Why?

[photo source]

commitment precedes clarity

One of the biggest myths of our generation is that we need clarity in order to commit. Before we pull the trigger, we first want answers to all our questions. We want a complete road map. We want to read the fine print before we sign our lives away. We want confident periods not uncertain question marks. We want to fully know what we're getting ourselves into. We want surety before we take a step. And until we get all that, we wait...

We blame our lack of commitment on a lack of clarity.

But it's a myth that knowing more would make it easier to say yes. It's a lie we tell ourselves so that we feel better about doing nothing.

If I knew when I boarded the plane for Africa at 19, all that awaited me there, I never would have gone. If I could've seen the roadmap of hills and deep, dark valleys, I would have stayed Stateside. If I could have imagined all the heartaches and challenges that I would have to endure in order to embrace the victories and successes, I would have cowered in the corner crying.

Details paralyze more than uncertainty does.

If we wait until we have it all spelled out, that's no longer faith-driven commitment -- that's just executing a plan. Commitment must be laced with doubt and hesitation and mystery.

Commitment, in its truest form, requires ambiguity.

Think of Abraham. "Leave your country, your family, and your father's home," God said, "for a land that I will show you."

Without even knowing where he was going or how he would get there, Abraham left. Courageous commitment lined every footstep he left in the rugged soil, stepping away from the known into the land of the unknown.

What's that thing scratching on the corner of your heart? What is that quiet nudge you continue to feel? What's the passion that keeps rising to the surface? Whatever it is... Stop waiting for all the answers, for certainty, for assurances.

Commitment precedes clarity every single time.

So pull the trigger. Say yes. Jump off the cliff. Send that email. Start the conversation. Take the step.

The courage lies in doing it afraid.

{Photo source.}

i'm that girl who's drowning

I've heard that the biggest challenge with rescuing a drowning victim is how they instinctively fight against their rescuer. The sheer panic and fear is so great that they can't stop themselves from flailing, even at their own detriment. But trying to snap them out of it—to awaken them to their need to simply relax and lean into the arms of their rescuer—is nearly impossible.

I'm that girl who's drowning.

I've been fighting against my new normal, almost without realizing it. Maybe if I just surrender to it, I'll discover that rescue is only breaths away. But maybe if I surrender to it, I'll discover there is no rescue at all... That it simply is what it is, and no amount of fighting or accepting is going to change it.

A counselor told me that all I've been through in the past few years wasn't just traumatic. It was trauma. Leaving me with a sort of PTSD that is very real, and that lingers still. {To be honest, that's still a hard pill for me to swallow.}

One of the greatest challenges of my new normal is memory loss. {I can't believe I just said that phrase out loud. Memory loss. But that's what it is, even if I prefer to hide behind calling it Fuzzy Brain Syndrome.}

I used to be the girl who remembered everything. My ex-husband was notorious for forgetting that he'd seen a movie. Even after I described it in detail, explained where and when we watched it, and showed him the cover... Nope. He couldn't remember. Until about 5 minutes into the movie when he'd bust out an, "Ohhhhh yeah." We laughed about it all the time. And now... that's me. I can't for the life of me remember the moves I've seen.

I can't remember names. Or where people live. Or the names of their spouse or kids. Or details of the last conversation we had.

I can't remember much of anything.

It scares me. It brings tears to my eyes and sometimes even causes me to full-on ugly cry. It makes me hate my brain.

I knew I had blogged once about my Fuzzy Brain Syndrome and my battle with my new normal. So I went back to find it. You know what? I wrote it two-and-a-half years ago. Two-and-a-half years. {Here come the tears again...} That is a long time, people. A long time to not be feeling like myself. A long time of feeling like I'm living with diminished capacity. A long time of wondering if it's just a phase and hoping for old-me to surface again.

Two-and-a-half years later, I'm starting to think this may be reality from here on out. And that really makes me hate my brain.

So I just need to say this:

When I ask you again—for the eleventy-second time—what your husband's name is, how many kids you have, where you live, or how we know each other, please, please know I hate it more than you do. It hurts my heart because I know it comes across like I don't pay attention or don't care... and I promise you that's not true.

I realize now that my only choice is to surrender, even while I doubt that a rescue will ever come. But fighting it is just too exhausting. So I give up. I cease flailing, throw my arms upward, and let the current take me under.

And pray grace finds me there...

photo credit: Duncan Rawlinson

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

beautiful feet

"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" As a missionary, I heard that verse often. People spoke it to me, wrote it in cards, sent it in framed pictures. It was a promise, to me, of beauty in messy places.

My feet walked the dusty dirt roads of Qwa Qwa, South Africa.

They stepped into dirt-floor homes, made of one room and filled with families of 12. Or more. My feet sat me down, cross-legged, to hold precious HIV-infected little ones, too weak to lift their heads, too numb to smile. My feet carried me to my desk (because, you see, I was {mostly} an office missionary), up the hill to my class (to teach a room filled with young beautiful feet), to the shops in my tiny town (where people knew me as that "Yankee girl").

My feet held me as our property raged with a wildfire, as a twister ripped the roof off my house, as the floods broke through the dam wall and filled the landscape. My feet held me as I held others, going through storms of their own, mostly of the invisible kind. My feet took me to Africa, and my feet took me back to the States.

And here I sit, nestled comfortably on the couch, and I wonder where the beauty has gone...

I wonder if an ex-missionary's feet are only beautiful in past tense, or if there could be some glimmer of redemptive beauty that still remains.

What do beautiful feet look like after failure, after shattered dreams, after hope dried up? What does it mean to bring good news in my everyday ordinary life when there are no babies to rock, classes to teach, people asking about Jesus?

I throw back the last sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, and the dam wall breaks...

Maybe the good news is simply a kind word, a generous smile, a lingering hug. Maybe the good news is an honest conversation about my struggles and the grace that clings to me even when I can't cling to it. Maybe the good news is offering the gift of going second, letting others know they aren't alone. Maybe the good news is found in "I don't know"s rather than fabricated answers, in "You are loved"s because it just needs to be said, in humble "I'm sorry, please forgive me"s from a sincere broken heart, in honestly grateful "Thank you"s that honor the gift and the giver. 

Maybe the good news that He sees, cares, and loves is really found in someone feeling seen, cared for, and loved... by me.

And maybe, just maybe, beautiful feet are whatever vehicle used to deliver that good news. A spoken word. A thumbed-out text. A hand-hold. An understanding tear. A joyful laugh. A handwritten letter. A blog post. A not-letting-go hug.

Perhaps this ex-missionary still brings good news, and perhaps my feet are found by Him to be beautiful still.

And maybe that verse still stands as a promise of beauty in messy places.

privacy, authenticity, and living publicly

Lately I seem to have better luck "accidentally" writing blog-post-length comments than writing actual posts. So I'm gonna stick with my new trend of just turning the comment into a post. My friend Sarah wrote an amazing post about privacy and authenticity in the online world. You need to make sure you read it. Like right now. Then come back and read my thoughts.

... ... ...

I’m a pretty private person, so my choice a few years ago to share about what was going on in my life/ministry was huge. I was very scared of doing it wrong — in a way that would bring more hurt and dishonor — than anything else, so I went about it with great trepidation. I painted with broad strokes, leaving out the bests, worsts, and a lot in between. And I still do. Not just in the ongoing journey of all that (and the many layers it entails) but also in my day-to-day life.

It’s easier to step back now than it was a few years ago. I often go days without being on twitter, weeks without blogging. I don’t analyze my sharing as much, debating on if this should or shouldn’t be shared. Those decisions come much easier than they used to.

Sometimes I have to fight the feeling that I’m missing out on great connections and opportunities (because of watching people quote-unquote “get ahead” with their @replies and intentional online shoulder-rubbing) and that I’m just missing out on all the fun — like everyone else is at the cool kids table and they’re all having this amazing time I’m excluded from. Sometimes I still have to fight all that and sometimes I just don’t even care anymore.

But the bottom line is this:

I value honesty in whatever is shared (by myself or others) rather than the amount/depth of it. I don’t think I — or anyone else — should divulge everything, but wisely withholding doesn’t mean one is being dishonest, disingenuous, or inauthentic. Be truly and honestly you in whatever it is you choose to share, and THAT is all the authenticity I need.

{Seth Haines also wrote a poignant post about authenticity and Sarah Markley unpacked more of her thoughts in a follow-up post. You're not gonna wanna miss these ones.}

Would love to hear your thoughts about privacy, authenticity, and living publicly. Let's talk!

grace in the south tower

Like the rest of you, I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news 11 years ago today. I was an ocean away in Africa. And all I wanted was to get back home to New York. We lost a family friend that day. Michael had dreamed of being an FDNY fireman since he was a toddler. Nine months after he aced his exams and joined, his company—Ladder 132—was one of the first to reach the scene on September 11th.

He chased his dream right into the South Tower.

Today, I pause again to remember. With chills. With tears. With a lump in my throat. I remember.

And with burning eyes clenched shut, I am forced again to wrestle with the goodness of God.

I can't acknowledge His goodness and grace only in those situations that work out well. So today—with trembling hands, a shaky voice, and mustard seed faith—I also acknowledge that the same grace that was present with the survivors, was present with those who passed.

Grace was right there in the Twin Towers.

It filled the streets. It permeated the buildings more thickly than the smoke. It sunk to the depths of the rubble. It surrounded, upheld, and carried all those who lived, all those who died, all those who lost loved ones.

The passage from Ecclesiastes keeps going through my mind. "For everything there is a season..." And I can't help but also think: For every season there is a grace.

Grace reigned that day 11 years ago, despite the atrocities and the loss and the fear and the heartache.

And grace reigns still.

i am (not) third

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...

God was in both

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.

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 world 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.

... ... ...

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{and it won't be the last}

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.}