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.

... ... ...

This post is part of a group blogging project celebrating the release of Inciting Incidents, a book featuring my beautiful friend Tracee Persiko along with five other creatives. Buy your copy right now! Read posts from other contributors and link up your own post here >

love and respect {now}

I'm sure you've heard of the marriage ministry (and book) called Love and Respect, by Emerson and Sarah Eggerichs. They're amazing, and I believe in their message. But it took me a while to get there. That'll happen when you have their book thrown at you. Literally.

I read it begrudgingly, and in the context of my life at the time I couldn't really even hear the message of the book over the cacophony of pain in my heart.

Fast forward a few years to when I realized my new friend, Joy Eggerichs was that Eggerichs. (As in the daughter of the couple who wrote and run Love and Respect.) Joy pioneered Love and Respect (Now), an incredible online resource and community that helps facilitate conversations about relationships. Her focus is on helping us figure it out NOW instead of someday saying, “I wish I had known then…”

Well, I'm guest posting for Joy today.

Come read about our unexpected friendship, my experience with her parents' book, and the time respect was thrown in my face.

Link over to read my post HERE >

{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.}

on finding a tagline

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!

gypsy landing

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.

[gallery]

God is good

My friend and fellow Deeper Story writer, Seth Haines, wrote a post recently that really resonated with me. He wrote about the unintended double-edged sword of proclaiming God's favor. "I’ve heard the creeping theology of prosperity in the averted tragedies of others. They spill wonder-filled, mystical stories, recounting God’s graciousness in piecing together the impossible jig-saw puzzles of life."

You need to read his entire post to really get it. The comment I left there ended up being long enough for a post of its own, so I figured I'd share it here as well.

... ... ...

I have found myself in the wrestling ground of this very issue for the past few years. I haven’t even been able to find words for what I’m grappling with, and I certainly haven’t come to any answers or conclusions.

But having walked through infidelity and then divorce, while surrounded by countless others whose infidelity journey (thankfully) ended in restoration/reconciliation, I am left with a pit-in-my-stomach feeling over my former position on the favor and goodness of God. Because as much as I’ve heard the seemingly careless remarks, I know I’ve made them in my lifetime as well.

“God is so good, and our marriage is better today than it ever was before.” “By God’s grace, we caught it in time and they got all the cancer.” “God is so faithful, and provision was there right when we needed it.”

Sometimes the provision doesn’t show up—sometimes the bills don’t get paid and the ministry God had clearly started is forced to close its doors. Sometimes the healing doesn’t come—like my beautiful, faith-filled friend who passed away last year or the chronic pain I live with daily. Sometimes the marriage doesn’t get restored—sometimes he really leaves to begin a new “happily ever after” with the other woman.

So do those outcomes mean that God isn’t good or faithful? Do they negate His grace or His love or His kindness? I know that they don’t. Because I know I can’t trust the God who gives without also trusting the God who takes away. He is one and the same, and His goodness is in anything His hand extends (and even in what it withholds). I know that He is both good and sovereign. The challenge lies in believing He is both of those at the same time.

I know that my gut-level cringing reaction to those seemingly flippant remarks about God being good when His favor is evident says more about me than the one who says them. Because I know they don’t mean them flippantly and I know they are right that God’s goodness is evident there.

The gritty sandpaper grating I feel inside is because I’m left wondering if I could say the same thing had the outcome been opposite. Or really, it’s because I’m left fully aware that I haven’t always done so. Even now, can I honestly and truly say I believe God’s grace, goodness, and faithfulness is evident in the way things turned out in my marriage? Maybe evident isn’t the right word. If “faith is the evidence of things not seen”, then I need to believe His goodness is there even if it isn’t evident.

And so I wrestle.

He is good. And He is sovereign. And both are displayed when the protection, provision, healing, and restoration shows up. And both are displayed when it doesn’t.

Lord, I believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.

bringing hope to the hard places

I sponsor three children in Ethiopia through Food for the Hungry. I had a vague idea of what child sponsorship meant, but if I'm honest, I really had no clue how it worked. Until I had the amazing opportunity to travel to Ethiopia in July to see it all firsthand.

Food for the Hungry believes in child-focused community transformation. They measure the health of a community by the health of its children—physically, emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. Then by meeting the children’s needs, they empower and build entire families and communities.

They focus on people, meet needs holistically, do things with excellence, and bring lasting change. And they do it all without fostering dependence. They go in to each region with an end-goal and an exit strategy. They aren’t there to be a crutch or even to provide hand-outs. They are there to build capacity and sustainability in both people and communities.

And this all happens through child sponsorship.

I discovered that my monthly support does more than directly impact the beautiful children I sponsor. Yes, it provides Chaltu, Nathinael, and Aklilu with food, medical care, and education. But as if that isn't enough, it also helps to fund the ongoing development of the communities in which they live.

Food for the Hungry works with parents, pastors, and local leaders to address the needs of the community as a whole, not just the individual sponsored children. They build schools, teach effective farming techniques, construct water and sanitation systems, train teachers, provide supplies, and develop child mentorship programs.

And as a result, children all over the world are having their lives transformed. Just like my three precious Ethiopian kids.

One of Food for the Hungry's slogans is “We go to the hard places”. And they definitely do. They took me to visit some remote villages that face seemingly insurmountable challenges. But Food for the Hungry is there, making a difference and working with the most vulnerable of children who live in inescapable poverty.

Ultimately, the greatest gift they offer is hope. Their very presence and the development work they do communicates worth, value, and significance to those who have felt long forgotten. It opens their eyes and their hearts to the love of God, and gives them hope for the future.

I feel honored and humbled to be able to play even a tiny part in the incredible work Food for the Hungry is doing around the world. Partnering with them inspires me to purposefully seek out ways I can join them in bringing hope to the hard places.

Originally published on ChristianPost.com

it all comes down to choice

Someone asked me the other day where I'm at in my journey. She was talking about the traumatic loss and transition I've endured in just about every single area of my life over the past few years. "Do you feel like you're on the other side of it?" I didn't really know how to answer that question because I don't think she fully understood what she was asking (though I know she certainly meant well.)

I'm in a much better place than I've been in a long time. Although I'm painfully aware of how fragile it all is, life feels good right now. And I haven't been able to say that truthfully in years.

But that doesn't mean I've gotten over—or even through—my loss.

I think the idea of "recovery" from loss is a harmful and misleading mirage. It's unrealistic to expect that life could ever go back to normal after catastrophic loss of any kind. In a way, life will be forever divided by before and after. And to strive to go back to normal—to return to how things were and how you felt before your loss—is like trying to get somewhere on a treadmill: exhausting and impossible.

I don't know if I'm meant to come out on the other side of my heartache. At least not in the usual sense.

I'm discovering what it's like to live in the delicate tension of sorrow and joy. What we deem to be opposites are not actually mutually exclusive. They can be—and maybe they should be—embraced together. We don't move out of sorrow into joy, as if we've recovered from our heartache. Instead we learn to choose joy even when that seed of sorrow remains ever present.

Jerry Sittser, in A Grace Disguised, said it so beautifully:

"I did not go through pain and come out the other side; instead, I lived in it and found within that pain the grace to survive and eventually grow. I did not get over the loss of my loved ones; rather, I absorbed the loss into my life, like soil receives decaying matter, until it became a part of who I am."

What happens in me matters far more than what happens to me. It's not my experiences that define me, but my responses to them.

So instead of making it my aim to get through what's happened to me, I am learning to focus on my response to what's happened to me. As with most things, it all comes down to choice.

That's the reason "choose" is my One Word for this year. Because I need constant reminding that even when I have nothing else, I always have the power to choose.

While I can't control what's going on in this world or in my life, I do have control over my responses to those things. So today—same as yesterday and the day before—it's entirely up to me to choose how I will respond to pain and sorrow and loss. I need to continue to choose to face, feel, and work through it, rather than to avoid it. And I need to continue to choose joy and trust right here, right now.

So if you're wondering where I'm at in my journey, know this: You can always find me right here, in the middle of the tension between joy and sorrow, grief and gratitude, weakness and strength, questions and faith.

Join me here, won't you?

Originally posted on Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

the grace of fragility

Cozied up in my comfy chair—still in pajamas, coffee in hand, snuggled under a blanket—I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And I can't help but smile. I have a home, a job, an income. I have friends and family who love me. I have health insurance, a car, a closet full of clothes. I have all I need, really. I shake my head in wonder. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

I open my eyes and breathe in deeply again. This nagging thought—the same one that's been hovering just beneath the surface for weeks now—scratches again and reminds me it's still there. It lingers close, threatening to steal my exhale and my smile. Like a funhouse mirror, it plays tricks on my mind, distorting hope into a frightening creature and making fears appear larger than they really are.

The thought I can't seem to shake is how fragile everything in my life feels, in a way it never used to. I'm painfully aware of how quickly it all can vanish. How in an instant, everything can be taken away.

Realizing life's fragility is ultimately a good thing. It keeps me mindful that nothing and no one ever belongs to me. It forces me to hold things (and people) more loosely. No matter how strong my death-grip, the concept of "mine" remains a mirage. Nothing is mine. And I'm not in control.

The constant reminder of fragility also leaves me feeling unsettled... insecure... unstable. It makes it difficult to invest in relationships, trust wholeheartedly, and put down roots. It feels harder to dream, to laugh, to enjoy the good that's present right now. Joy takes more effort than it used to and anxiety comes more easily. Hope often seems like a cruel joke. Remember Lucy and the football?

Sometimes that's what hope feels like, and I'm left feeling stupid that I fell for it yet again.

Even as I say all this out loud, I know how ridiculous it sounds even in my own head. I hear the nudging reminders not to worry about tomorrow as today has enough worry of its own. I see the "choose joy" on my arm and feel the heart hug of my ever-present friend who showed me what it means to live that out. I hear God calling me to hope. Again. No matter what.

I want to believe that eventually dreaming will feel easier again, that life—though fragile—will feel more secure, and that thoughts of the future will breed more hope than fear. I want to.

So I close my teary eyes again, and take a deep breath. I hold it as long as I can, and as I let the air out I shake my head. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

pleading not guilty

I was worried I'd grown numb to it. Maybe I'd become calloused. Hardened. Immune. Because poverty wasn't affecting me like it used to.

When I faced it as a teenager—on mission trips to places like Nicaragua and Botswana—my eyes and my heart were opened to things I never knew existed in the world. I was wrecked to discover such unimaginable and inescapable poverty, and it messed with me at a deep level.

I'd return home and make all kinds of extreme commitments. I vowed to be less materialistic. I took radical stances with my "self-absorbed" Christian friends. I soapboxed about America's obsession with excess. I volunteered more, and served wherever and whenever I could.

But as the aftershocks of my experiences with poverty wore off, so did my radical life changes. Until my next mission trip.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It was a vicious cycle of the best intentions that did nothing more than fuel my need to continually strive to be better, do more, and—somehow, hopefully—be enough.

I'm not saying I didn't genuinely have compassion and conviction and passion to live a life that makes a difference. I did. But it translated into a guilt-driven reaction to the extremes I saw and experienced.

It was a nauseating roller coaster ride as I tried—and failed—to reconcile the poverty I witnessed with the life I lived everyday and to bridge the disparity between my abundance and their lack.

It was years after I moved to South Africa to serve in the poorest region of the country that I finally realized that those things can't be reconciled or bridged. The contrasts will never make sense.

And I mustn't allow my guilt to force-feed my insatiable striving complex. Nor must I allow it to paralyze me into inactivity or apathy.

I had finally learned to step off the roller coaster and actually engage in doing something that would truly make a difference. Not fueled by guilt, but by hope.

I realized that it isn't about being apologetic for what I have, giving everything away, or looking down on how much people spend at Starbucks. It is about stewarding what I have well, using it to serve, strengthen, and love others.

People often ask me how I could live and work for so long in a community of such dire poverty. "Do you just get used to it?" What they are really asking is the same thing I've asked myself: "Did you grow numb?"

And I see now that I didn't. But somewhere in my 13 years of living in Africa, something did change in me.

I stopped feeling guilty about what I had and the "luck" of being born an American, and I started to feel grateful to be part of the solution.

The problems and challenges are enormous, but we can all do something that makes a difference. In our own unique ways, with our own individual passions and talents, we can bring hope into places and hearts that gave up a long time ago.

Not because we feel guilty, but because we are compelled by the hope we ourselves have been given.

What's been your experience with responding to poverty? How can we move past guilt into being part of the solution?

{photos by Daniel White}

{Guest Post} When Your World Comes Crashing Down

Jeff Goins and I connected a few years ago via Twitter. We both have a heart for missions and started brainstorming ways to partner our organizations together. He quickly became a friend, and it's been a joy watching his journey unfold the past few years. He is a solid guy—wicked smart, gifted writer, and passionate about not only telling great stories, but living them as well. His new book Wrecked is poignant and inspiring. You definitely need to read it! I've asked Jeff to share one of his experiences of learning to embrace the messy grit of life.

It was senior year in college, and I thought I knew a thing or two about life. I thought I had it all figured out, that I knew the direction of my destiny. Everything, I thought, was going according to plan.

I was wrong.

My plan was this: study Spanish, learn the language, graduate college, and move abroad. My best friend had moved to Guatemala, so I thought I'd follow him. What could be better?

But then one Saturday afternoon, I attended a church service where a gentleman was sharing about the 10/40 window and the needs of people all over the world — not just in Latina America.

He messed me and my little plan up.

The more the man talked, the more uneasy I felt. And the more I realized this was my bright idea and maybe not God's. Finally at the end of the day, I approached him, asking the question that was burning in my heart.

"I speak Spanish. Shouldn't I go to some place where I already know the language and culture?"

He smiled and shook his head, full of grace. I prodded and asked and wanted to know why, why he was ruining all my wonderful plans.

Then he said something I won't soon forget: "The gifts never precede the call."

But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted specifics: charts and graphs and whatnot. He told me it was good that I knew Spanish, but that I couldn't go to God with my abilities, asking him to merely bless them.

Instead, I needed to follow him, to go where I felt called, and trust that what I needed to serve would follow. He explained that one approach (mine, I gathered) was prideful, asking God to baptize my preexisting plans; and the other was the way of faith, of trusting without seeing.

Days after that meeting, I started watching videos about China and got excited. A year later, I spent a month in Taiwan.

I'm still figuring it out, but this is the tough part of pursuing our life's work. Things don't always go according to plan; sometimes, we don't get what we want. And maybe that's what a calling is all about.

... ... ...

Jeff Goins is a writer who lives in Nashville. You can find him on his blog at goinswriter.com and follow him on Twitter at @jeffgoins. His book, Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life, just came out. Find out more at wreckedthebook.com.

How have you seen God show up in your own life when things didn't go according to plan?

remember that time i almost got published?

I was this close to being a published author. Last December I was invited to co-author a book with some incredible writers. Since I've shared about the project previously here on The Grit and many of you have expressed interest in its release, I've decided to try to update everyone rather than have a lot of individually awkward conversations as questions come streaming in down the road.

It was such an honor to be asked to be a part of this amazing collaboration, and the initial phone conversation moved quickly into signed contracts and scheduled deadlines. Each of us contributing authors were invited because of our unique story and journey. We were tasked with writing memoir-style about a moment that changed the course of our lives and the ways our stories have unfolded since then.

The publisher asked us to write from our hearts. To be candid. Honest. Real. I wrote and re-wrote for weeks. Months, even. My story is public, and I've shared about it countless times in writing and in person, but I was being called upon to dig deeper. To divulge more—of my heart, not details. The editing process was grueling and insightful, with countless revisions until the end result was a piece I was honestly in awe of.

The editorial team had drawn out of me what I didn't think was possible.

As always, I felt the risk in such bare-naked vulnerability, but I also felt strangely proud of and excited about my contribution. It truly was the product of an incredible group of people—publishers and editors alike—who believed in me and in my story.

A few weeks ago, I got to see my chapter transform from typed pages in a Word document into its actual layout in the book. Complete with artwork and page numbers, it seemed to come alive in a whole new way. We were getting close, making final tweaks days before going to print. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

And then the carpet got pulled out from underneath it all.

While I was in Ethiopia, I got an email that the publisher's legal department suddenly had concerns.

Although my story had already been shared publicly, although I never mentioned my ex-husband or the other woman by name, although I've resumed my maiden name... they worried about liability. Emails flew back and forth in an attempt to find a workable solution to this crazy last-minute "problem".

Eventually the publisher sent me a revised version of my chapter that no longer included specific reference to an affair.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

This was no longer my story.

As I have since the beginning, I'd worked hard to share the painful parts of my journey in a way that still honored my ex-husband. I know my story isn't pretty, and the facts themselves are shockingly and devastatingly ugly. But I've always sought to tell my story in the most tactful and respectful way possible, explaining the facts but focusing more on my personal response and journey through them. This watered-down rendition seemed intent to protect my ex even from the truth itself.

With this now-required omission, I felt my chapter would need to be rewritten entirely. But I was told there wasn't time for that.

This was now the only version that was approved to go to print, and they needed me to sign off on it by the end of the day so it could be sent to the printer.

What was left was no longer a piece I was proud of or confident in. It felt untrue to myself, to my journey, to my voice...

Heartbroken, I bowed out of the project. And I felt the dream of being a published author run like water through my grasping fingers...

I don't understand how it came to this. I don't really get the liability concern when countless books get published all the time by those who've endured much worse at the hands of others. I can't fathom why concern was raised only days before the book went to print. I can't comprehend being invited to be a part of this project because of my story and then basically excluded from it because of it. It doesn't make sense to me, and it probably never will.

A few days out from it, I can honestly say I'm not bitter. Just disappointed.

I feel crazy-grateful for those who believed so strongly in me and in my story. They advocated loudly on my behalf from start to finish, and worked tirelessly to find a way for me to remain a part of the project.

I'm still thankful for the hard work of writing my chapter—the digging deep, the editing journey, the excruciating but extraordinary process of putting my heart on paper. That I don't regret at all. And I'll be better prepared for the next opportunity, whenever that may be.

I'm left with a stark reminder that more important than being a storyteller, I am a story-liver.

And I want to continue to live a story that honors God, that trusts Him no matter what, and that shouts how good He is.

Even in the wake of disappointment.

in recovery

My gall bladder came out on Thursday. I'll spare you the picture my surgeon took for me (he's awesome like that!), but take my word for it—I'm glad to have that thing gone. The pile of stones it held was near record-breaking, that's for sure.

I've done basically nothing for the past few days. Tracee, my roommate, has taken good care of me: keeping me fed, hydrated, and medicated. Oh, and keeping something good in the DVD player at all times. Booyah.

Today I'm feeling more discomfort than pain, which is certainly a welcomed improvement. Laughing still hurts like crazy, and don't even get me started on sneezing. Ouch.

Boredom has started to set in. Maybe you can help stir up my stir-crazy a bit.

Tell me what's going on in your world. Or tell me a funny story (the laughter pain will be worth it). Or link me to something you loved reading or seeing or hearing. Anything at all.

Mmmkaythanks.

more than money

Bona is 17. When I met him in Ethiopia last week, I was immediately caught up in his handsome face and soul-stirring smile. Hearing his story and heart only endeared him to me even more.

His mom passed away when he was in first grade, and his dad died last year. There was a visible sadness in his eyes as he talked about loneliness, his older brother living several hundred kilometers away.

The social worker bragged on Bona for a bit. He is first in his class. In fact, he's been first in his class throughout his entire school career. Bona smiled, and I know his heart must have swelled in that moment, hearing all of us say how proud we are of him.

He's been sponsored through Food for the Hungry for five years. With their help and the grace of God, he's pressed on with perseverance and hope in the face of countless difficulties.

Next year, Bona ages out of the sponsorship program. All kids do at age 18. Food for the Hungry will continue to help him with his educational costs and supplies as he goes on to university. He wants to be a doctor, and he has the grades and the drive to actually do it.

I asked Bona how he feels about his sponsorship coming to an end next year. He told me that he really appreciates the tangible benefits of his sponsorship, but wishes he felt more connected to his sponsors. He said he feels as though he's missed out on the relationship aspect of sponsorship. "I wish they would write to me more. And even send me pictures of themselves. I don't even know what they look like."

Man, that hit me like a ton of bricks. Up front, we think the biggest commitment is the $32 a month. But ultimately, writing the monthly check is the easy part. And that's not even what the child is most hoping for. They want to feel connected—like they belong.{Don't we all?}

They don't just want our money. They also want our love and affection. They care more about the letters, notes, and pictures we send because those make them feel loved, cared about, and valued.

I felt so challenged and inspired in that moment to write to my sponsored kids more frequently, and to send pictures of myself, my family, my city, and things I enjoy. That takes more time and effort than writing a check, but these kids are worth it.

If you have sponsored children—through any organization—make some time this week to strengthen your relationship with them. Write a letter. Print some photos. Have your kids draw some pictures. And put a reminder on your calendar to do it again next month. And the month after that.

Let's not just be generous with our finances. Let's be generous with our hearts and our time.

For that's the most life-changing sacrifice we can make.

Originally posted on Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

give hope

My trip to Ethiopia was my first opportunity to experience a Christian relief and development organization working in a Muslim region. I wondered how those dynamics would play out, and my questions got answered when I visited three kids who live by themselves in the village of Abossa.

Sixteen-year-old Mehiret cares for her sister Lidia (age 14) and brother Bedilu (11). Their dad died ten years ago; their mom, 4 years ago. Both passed away from AIDS, and all three kids are HIV+. At age 12, Mehiret was left alone to raise her siblings.

In the Muslim community in which they live, the children were treated as outcasts. The stigma of HIV is still strong: the kids weren't permitted to share community bathroom facilities. People refused to share meals or even household utensils and supplies with them.

These beautiful children battled not only the loss of both parents and the need to fend for themselves, but also the rejection of the very community in which they lived.

At one point, Lidia couldn't take it any more. She stopped going to school and refused to take her ARVs (HIV medication). She just wanted to die.

Then Food for the Hungry entered the scene.

Two years ago, FH launched their child-headed household program, stepping in to meet the unique needs of orphans left to live on their own. In addition to providing their food, medical care, and education, FH also takes care of their clothing needs and living expenses. They stand in as family, taking the kids on vacations over holidays and school breaks. They provide legal support to ensure the children receive the inheritance and government funding available to them. They even built them a more adequate house—with its very own bathroom facility.

The community couldn't help but notice all that FH was doing. They saw physical needs being met, but also that FH staff weren't afraid to hug and love these children.

The evangelical response of Food for the Hungry stood in stark contrast to the community's, and it entirely transformed the Muslim village's approach toward the children.

These days, the kids are doing amazingly well. They are excelling at school, and dreaming for the future. The two girls want to become teachers, and Bedilu hopes to get his pilot's license.

Lidia shared that because of the love and support of FH, she is a completely different person today than the hopeless girl who wanted to die two years ago.

Because sometimes hope comes in the form of "forbidden" hugs, adopted-family vacations, and the construction of a bathroom.

Give hope >

{Thank you, David Molnar, for the amazing photographs and a lifetime worth of puns crammed into one week.}

pure & genuine religion

I already loved Food for the Hungry. But seeing their work firsthand only made me respect and admire them even more. FH believes in child-focused community transformation. They measure the health of a community by the health of its children (I'm talking about physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological health). And then by meeting the children's needs, they empower and build entire families and communities.

Seeing what that actually means—meeting their staff, talking with children and families they impact, and hearing from leaders in the communities they serve—left a lasting impression on me.

FH does things right.

They focus on people, meet needs holistically, do things with excellence, and bring lasting change. And they do it all without fostering dependence.

They go in to each community with an end-goal and an exit strategy. They aren't there to be a crutch or even to provide hand-outs. They build capacity in both people and communities, leaving them self-sustaining and thriving.

I really was astounded to see the depth of Food for the Hungry's work. They have over 430 staff members in Ethiopia alone. Oh—and only two of them are American. Their staff are so loved in the communities where they work. Countless children and families raved to us about their FH social workers.

One woman, who cares for her orphaned niece, said, "God has brought Food for the Hungry to us. I have brothers and sisters, none of whom even gave a pen to help this child. But FH provides her school fees and supplies. Glory be to God, FH has helped us a lot."

FH runs as deep as it is wide, leaving a life-changing impact on individuals and communities.

One of their slogans is "We go to the hard places". And they definitely do.

We visited some remote villages that face seemingly insurmountable challenges. But FH is there, making a difference and working with the most vulnerable of children who live in inescapable poverty.

They are living out James 1:27—

"Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress..."

Let's live it out with them.

{Pictures by David Molnar, photographer extraordinaire and pun-master.}

my ethiopia

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a heart full

I'm sitting here staring at this blank screen, shaking my head. The task of finding intelligible and adequate words to describe this amazing day is an impossible one. My heart is fuller than the day was.

Filled with beautiful faces...

hugs with countless children...

...and heart-stopping moments.

The highlight of today was my time with Chaltu, Nathinael, and Aklilu (my sponsored children). You guys, my heart felt like it was going to burst! I need to save those stories and pics for when I have time to process a bit more, but believe me, I am anxious to share them with you! Suffice it to say... my kidlets are even more incredible than I already knew them to be.

{Prayer point: I had another minor gall bladder attack this afternoon. Thankfully, the emergency meds kicked in fast and kept it from getting too bad. I'm feeling tired and tender from it, but otherwise okay. Thank you for continuing to talk to Him about me and my lovely gall bladder.}

I wish I could bottle up all the sights and sounds and experiences of today so you could just uncork it and share in all of it with me.

Every single moment dripped with wonder, hope, and joy. God is doing amazing things in Ethiopia, and I feel incredibly humbled to be here to catch glimpses of His handiwork.

My heart aches to know that over 1,000 children in these communities are still waiting to be sponsored. Praying for hearts to be stirred to help...

Sponsor a kidlet in these communities >