gratitude and grief

I checked two bags at the airport, both bursting at the seams, and boarded a flight with a heart that was just as full. My soul was brimming with eager expectancy and apprehension. There were equal parts passion and fear, joy and sadness, excitement and hesitation. Like most people following God’s promptings in their lives, I faced a whole continent of unknowns.

I was moving to Africa.

I was 19.

In high school, I’d spent every summer traveling overseas on mission trips. First it was Central and South America, experiences which made my heart come alive as I discovered and embraced other cultures for the first time. But nothing compared to the way my life changed when I set foot on African soil.

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 preferred to pass a gorgeous day indoors, 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 a beautiful Motswana woman. 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: a pile of neatly folded blankets, a tea kettle, some metal camping mugs, a broom. She had welcomed us in warmly and apologized for not having chairs to offer us. After she served us hot 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 the Bible, following Christ, and what faith means to each of us. As she spoke, her smile lit up her 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.

Later that week, people from the village gathered in the open square to visit with our team. I watched a young girl approach, holding the arm of her elderly grandmother, guiding her over from a nearby hut. The woman’s body was frail and bent, and she walked slowly but deliberately straight toward me.

“Mma?” She called me with the respectful Setswana word for addressing a woman, and looked up at me with milky, cataract-veiled eyes. Through my translator she explained, “I cannot see anymore. Everything is cloudy. But I know Jesus heals. Pray for me, Mma?”

With my mustard-seed teenage faith and a firm belief in a God who heals, I placed my hands on her eyes and prayed. My heart ached for this woman and her incredible faith, and I begged God for a miracle.

The woman began crying and I wiped her tears gently as I prayed. At my “Amen,” she lifted her calloused fingers to her face and rubbed her eyes. She wiped her hands on her dust-stained green sweater and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. She blinked repeatedly and continued rubbing her eyes, wiping away a thick, filmy substance. A smile spread wide across her face and she began speaking excitedly in Setswana.

My interpreter translated for me. “I can see! I can see!”

“Go over there,” she told me, pointing to the tin snack shop about 10 feet away. I walked over. “I can still see you. Go farther!” I continued taking steps back until I was unnervingly far from the rest of my group, about 50 yards away. The translator shouted to echo the old woman’s excited voice, “I can still see you!”

I will never forget that woman’s smile and the sight of her walking home without the guiding arm of her granddaughter. And I will never forget the growing seed of faith that burrowed deeper into my heart that day.

It was these sorts of experiences that captivated my heart for Africa and her people, who overflowed with joy and faith from a well than ran deep, even in a dry and desperate land.

Africa changed me far more than I ever changed her.

So I kept going back, sensing even as a shy teenager that God was calling me to live in Africa. Not because I thought I had something to offer, or even that I wanted to do something courageous, but simply because I was convinced it was where I belonged. It felt like home.

And so, while friends were buying used books for college and adjusting their class schedules, I was saying my goodbyes and boarding a 17-hour flight to South Africa. 15 years ago today, I arrived in a country that quickly became home, that captivated my heart in every possible way, that became the source of my greatest loves and deepest losses.

I haven't ever felt as sure about anything as I did that day—so long ago and yet seemingly just yesterday. Part of me hopes that I'll someday feel that same confident "knowing" again and the other part of me doubts I ever will... and is absolutely okay with that. That I had one life-changing assurance, experience, and journey is enough—it's actually more than I could have hoped for or imagined.

Regardless of where I am in the world—or in life—this will always remain my Africaversary. My heart is tender, vacillating wildly between gratitude and grief, joy and sorrow.

But mostly—mostly—I am acutely aware of the once-in-a-lifetime story I've lived, born from the seed of faith planted deep in my heart one dusty summer in Botswana.

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

TGIF: on puzzle pieces, sunshine, & friendship

I saw this exercise in the archives of Brené Brown's blog, and loved it so much I decided to resurrect it here at the Grit. So here is my TGI this Friday...

... ... ...

I'm trusting that all the details will work out. Somehow. I've got a lot of puzzle pieces I'm trying to sort out at the moment, but I'm choosing to trust that God sees the full (finished) picture when all I see are fragmented bits. And that it will all come together right when it needs to. Trusting that His timing won't be late means accepting it might not be early either. Eeeeeek.

I'm grateful for the sunshine that's finally broken through after weeks of dreary winter. My soul needed it. Badly.

I'm inspired by friends I spent time with this week. They are wise and compassionate and focused. They are humble and strong and funny. Their gracious gift of friendship speaks "enoughness" to my heart and pushes me to live life fully.

... ... ...

I would love to know what you are trusting in, grateful for, and inspired by today.

Happy Friday, Gritty family.

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.

_________________________

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 >>

_________________________

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 >>

_________________________

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 >>

_________________________

 Happy April, Gritty friends. 

the tomb isn't actually empty

My heart is camping out in the empty tomb today.

The empty tomb that isn't actually empty. Because it's filled with hope.

Promise.

Undeserved freedom.

Scandalous grace.

The empty tomb is actually bursting at the seams, overflowing with unexpected second chances.

What seems like the end isn’t really the end.

When it’s over, lost, gone, broken beyond repair… that’s when things have really just begun.

Life after death is so much more extraordinary than life before it.

Wholeness comes from brokenness.

Beauty is birthed in ashes.

The new life of spring actually begins with the slow death of autumn.

And that, to me, is the joy of Easter. Found right here in the empty yet abundantly full tomb...

Happy Easter, friends. He is risen!

silent saturday

Waiting is hard.

Waiting in silence is even harder.

I keep thinking about this Silent Saturday wedged between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. This day we know very little about.

What did the disciples do? Were they crying? Praying? Angry? Hopeful? I don't know what they were doing, but I know what they were hearing.

Nothing.

All they could do was wait.

For what? They didn't even know. For how long? They had no clue.

I'm sure the night-hours seemed darker. I'd imagine the questions kept coming and the fear grew crippling. I'm sure it felt like they were holding their breath, hoping against hope that Jesus was still who He said He was and that the last few years hadn't been a complete waste.

But their waiting was met only with deafening silence...

Just like yours and mine sometimes is.

So on this Silent Saturday, I'm reminding us of what we know to be true:

Keep waiting.

Redemption is coming.

why this friday is good

I'm thinking about this day we call Good Friday. And how it felt anything but good at the time.

It was dark and heavy.

A day with more questions than answers.

More confusion than peace.

More doubt than faith.

Despair hung thick in the air, hearts crushed and despondent. The soul-depth disappointment in God was palpable and suffocating.

How could He? Why would He? What do I do now?

None of it made sense. It didn't line up with all they had seen and heard and experienced. The miracles... the teachings... the love... it all hung in the balance of two wooden beams on a hillside.

Everything they thought their Messiah would be, died that day.

All their hopes and dreams shattered with His nail-split hands. They'd given up everything to follow Him -- families, careers, homes -- and now this. A horrible, wretched death.

Of Him.

Of their hearts.

Of their hope.

They didn't know what we know now, looking back thousands of years later. That life comes out of death. That new beginnings spring forth from the worst of endings.

That hope rises.

To me, this Friday is so very good because of the mere fact that it was so very bad.

It reminds me that the dark and heavy times of my life are not devoid of Him, even when I can't see Hm or feel Him. That doubt doesn't nullify my faith. And that questioning isn't wrong.

It reminds me to let everything I think my Messiah should be, die. Because He is so much more than my imaginary version of Him, made in my own image. He loves, redeems, and saves me in ways I would never expect and could never imagine.

And it gives me hope that someday... Someday I may even call my darkest Friday "good".

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.

on his affair being my fault

The conversation started with, "Why do you think he had an affair?"

Between a string of "I don't know"s, I spoke of it not being the first time... of the strains of ministry leadership... of a pattern that had been modeled for him... of the hardships in our marriage... of the choices that, one by one, little by little, led down a slippery slope. Her pursed lips and nodding head let me know it wasn't the answer she was looking for, even before she reworded her question.

"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?"

I sat there, incredulous—and, not knowing what to do, I just started rambling through the sobs. I explained why I think he chose her... I hypothesized on the reasons our complicated, cross-cultural marriage was so challenging... I outlined a long list of my own flaws and failures... The conversation eventually ended, though I don't think my responses ever fully satisfied her. Then again, I still don't know exactly what she wanted out of me.

Looking back, that conversation was one of my lowest moments.

Because I was forced to defend what shouldn't need defending. Because I allowed someone to treat me as though the affair was my fault. Oh, she said all the wrong things in all the "right" ways—making sure to avoid words like fault or cause or reason—yet that is still what she was implying. I felt trapped in a corner, trying to defend myself against a pointed finger and assigned blame.

Disappointingly, I believe her take-away from that dialogue was that I was resistant to taking a close look at my own heart and shortcomings—that I don't allow friends to ask hard questions. And while I know that isn't true of that conversation (or others like it), I was (am) frustrated and hurt at feeling so misunderstood and misrepresented.

Because I've owned my part of the challenges of our marriage. Soon after the news of the affair broke, I processed at length with my therapists about my own personal issues, faults, and sins, and how those impacted my relationship(s). I even had difficult, humbling discussions with my still-unrepentant husband in which I apologized for the ways I'd hurt him and our marriage.

I am extremely introspective, self-analyzing, self-critical. If anything's gone wrong or anyone is upset, I automatically believe it must be my fault. So to assume I haven't taken a hard look at myself throughout the journey of the past few years—the most grievous, painful, heartwrenching season of my life—would almost be laughable. If it wasn't so hurtful.

Believe me. I blamed myself plenty, all on my own.

I waded through the blame my ex-husband heaped on me as well. I analyzed to death all the things that I could have done differently, wondering if it would have led to a different outcome. I assure you—regret, shame, and self-blame abounded.

Even in this, as with most everything—joy and grief, faith and uncertainty, pain and healing—I grapple in the ampersand arena. I live in the tension of two opposing truths I am forced to accept together: I am a co-contributor to the demise of my marriage relationship, and my husband's decision to have an affair is not my fault, in whole or in part.

Both true. Both painfully hard for me to swallow. And both have caused me heartache enough for lifetimes.

You, my friend, need not add to it.

{photo credit}

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

sterkte

Sterkte.

It's one of my favorite South African-isms.

Its an Afrikaans expression used when someone is facing a challenging or difficult situation, or are about to embark on something that makes them nervous or anxious. The closest phrase we have in English would be 'Good luck,' but that comes nowhere close to capturing it. At all.

Sterkte.

It literally means, simply, 'Strength'.

It's used to wish someone the strength to persevere whatever hardship they are experiencing or whatever nerve-wracking situation they are facing.

It's used to call out the strength you already see in someone's heart, even when they can't see it or feel it themselves.

It's used to infuse strength by affirming that you believe in them and their ability to keep moving forward, by the grace of God.

That's why 'Good Luck' would never suffice as a substitute.

Sterkte speaks courage.

Builds hope.

Demonstrates not-alone-ness.

And today, sweet Gritty family, it is all I have to offer to you.

Sterkte.

[photo credit]

{guest post} when God doesn't give you what you asked for

If you don't know my friend Ally Vesterfelt, you need to. She is genuine and passionate, and a beautifully honest writer. She's also the managing editor of Prodigal Magazine, one of my favorite corners of the Internet. I appreciate the ways Ally embraces the "grit" in life and invites God to meet her there.

:: :: ::

This last year I prayed big.

It started because I read a book by Mark Batterson called The Circle Maker. The thought of praying the way he prayed (persistently, for specific things) had never really occurred to me.

Usually, I liked to keep my prayers small and manageable.

I didn't want it to seem like I was being greedy or anything.

But when I read Batterson's book I started to see how praying for things I actually wanted (regardless if they were big or small) wasn't being selfish, it was just being honest — and being honest was what prayer was really about, a dynamic, authentic conversation with God.

So my prayers went from being really "spiritual" all the time to sometimes not-so-much.

I would pray for things like a second bookshelf to house my growing collection. I would pray for warm weather for an outdoor picnic with my husband. I would pray for friendship with a person in a similar stage of life.

Maybe that sounds elementary, but for me it was ground-breaking.

Shocking, actually.

I would pray for a specific need to be met by a specific day, and sure enough, it would be. Or I would pray for something that wasn't a need, that was just a luxury, and many times I would get the gift I had asked for.

But there was one prayer I prayed that wasn't answered.

Granted, it was a big prayer. A little far-fetched even. One of those that, when you write it down, you think to yourself: I'd like to see you take on this one, God.

The request had to do with a specific financial debt I owed. I wanted it to be paid off by the end of the year.

So I wrote down the prayer and the specific number, just as I had been doing before. I started making payments whenever I had extra cash, or money left over in a particular budget. For a while, I was really vigilant about it. I prayed about it every day, and the energy to conquer the debt consumed my mind.

But after a few months the prayer slipped to the back of my journal, and while I did occasionally pray that the debt would be paid by the date I had set, I didn't think about it with nearly the conviction I had when I first started.

So when the end of the year came, and the debt wasn't paid off, I cringed a little.

Not because God hadn't given me what I had asked for, but because He had reminded me that,

while He is a God who hears me and cares about what I want, he has something as much to teach me by saying "no" as he does by saying "yes."

I know this, but sometimes I live like I don't know it.

In fact, sometimes I think this is what kept me from praying "big" prayers in the first place. I was worried that if I didn't say it right, or if my heart wasn't in exactly the right place, I would never get what I asked for.

And when I act like prayer is about getting what I ask for, I miss the point altogether.

It's okay to want something (even admit we want it) and still not have it.

The second thing I learned was that, when it comes to what I have and what I don't have, I am a co-creator with God. God has more resources than I do, more grace, more wisdom, and far more patience — but I can't expect Him to answer prayers I am not willing to answer myself.

I have to be willing to make the sacrifices, fork over the cash, go visit the friend, reach out to the person in need, stay up all night working —

All the while praying for God to fill in the gaps.

Many times in my life God has answered prayers i didn't know how to pray, or that I couldn't have dreamed up in a million years. Other times I have begged him for things, laid everything on the line, and he has said "no," or worse, been silent.

There is no reward/payoff system, no formula we can use to make prayer "work," for us, to help get us what we want.

But I think that's actually the point I'm trying to make.

That prayer is its own reward, and that as my prayers change, I change with them.

And for now that is enough.

:: :: ::

Allison is a writer, managing editor of Prodigal Magazine and author of Packing Light: Thoughts on Living Life with Less Baggage (Moody, 2013). She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with her husband Darrell. You can follow her daily on Twitter or Facebook.

How do you handle God's "no"s or silences?

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 >

the best gift

I thought nothing could be more incredible than meeting the kids I sponsor through Food for the Hungry. In July, I had the incredible privilege of traveling to Ethiopia with FH to see firsthand the work they are doing there. The whole trip was amazing and insightful — truly mind-blowing to see the depth and breadth of the transformative work FH is engaged in.

And the icing on the cake was getting to meet my kidlets.

Chaltu was so shy. I think the barrage of "whiteys" intimidated her a bit — understandably.

But she warmed up when se opened the small gifts I brought her. Nothing like Lip Smackers and pink sunglasses to get a girl to open up.

Chaltu's mom was overjoyed by the visit, and continually expressed how thankful she is for the support of Food for the Hungry.

Nathinael was playing in the street when I met him. After quick, tight hugs, he led me inside his home. He showed me which bed mat was his and which was his grandma's.

Nathinael was vibrant and engaging — he has such a sweet and joyful disposition, which stood in stark contrast to the drab one-room mud hut he calls home. Our visit went by far too quickly. I could've talked with that kid for ages.

And then there was Akliku.

I had chosen to sponsor him because of his cautious smile and inquisitive eyes — and also because of his age. At 16, I figured he was typically overlooked for younger, "cuter" kids. He had already been waiting for sponsorship for almost 2 years.

Because of his education level, Akliku's English allowed us to fully engage in conversation in a way I hadn't been able to with my younger kids. He told me about his love of soccer, his favorite subject at school (math), and about the impact FH is having in his life. It was my favorite visit simply because of how easily, naturally, and comfortably we were able to interact.

Fast forward 5 months.

I got Christmas cards from each of my sponsored kids. And when I read Akliku's, my breath caught in my throat.

Did you catch that? "I learned about Jesus in Bible."

My heart was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, and I was more humbled and proud than ever to support the work of Food for the Hungry.

They gave me the best gift I could imagine by sharing Jesus with my sweet Ethiopian kidlets... And Aklilu got to hear the Good News before he aged out of sponsorship eligibility. My heart is full!

Join me in sponsoring a child >>

What's the best gift you've received lately?

{All photos by David Molnar}

write now

Sometimes -- more often than I'd like to admit -- that old crazy-making feeling comes back. And I feel as though I must be crazy because there's no other explanation possible.

I must've done something wrong. I must've messed up somewhere. I wonder what I did to upset them? Hurt them? Cause them to treat me differently?

When I can't figure out the answers -- even when I ask -- then I'm left with that age-old sense that I must just be crazy. It's all in my head, I guess.

And now I'm forced to reconcile that with this whole "I am enough" thing. And I find it impossible to believe in my enoughness when I feel crazy.

Because crazy trumps everything, you know?

Or does it?

Even if I am crazy, am I not still enough?

Dang. That'll get me thinking...

This post feels like an infinity pool -- no clear end in sight. So all I can say is the same as always -- I have no answers. No conclusions. No cloud-lifting "a-ha!" moments. Just a wrestling and a commitment to stay in the tension rather than run from it.

Crazy or not, here I come.

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landing planes

{photo credit: josemanuelerre via photopin cc}

"The thing about big projects is that they tend to be less like one, giant to-do list, and more like landing planes - lots of planes - jet liners, twin prop Cessnas, helicopters - that just keep coming.

With large projects there are always things flying through the air that you must carefully place on the ground.

Some planes need to be coordinated one at time, and others come at you all at once. Some come down nice and easy, and some have turbulent landings.

The thing about landing planes, however, is that you never really feel 'finished' in the same way you do after checking everything off your to-do list, because you know that there is always another plane on the horizon.

Airports donʼt shut down and neither do big projects.

The planes just keep coming.

After auditions, you have to figure out wardrobe. Once you have the wardrobe finished, you need to walk everyone through their paces. Once youʼre on set, everyone needs to be directed. And then once you start you shooting, you realize all the changes you need to make.

Plane after plane after plane.

For a long time I felt defeated by the onslaught of planes. It seemed like nothing was ever really getting done.

And if by some off chance I was beginning to feel like I could breathe again, or like we were actually getting somewhere, inevitably some other problem would occur.

And then I thought,

This is the creative process, stop complaining! Itʼs messy! Itʼs rarely mappable! It is always dynamic and ever-changing!

Obviously you make plans, but factors outside of your control change all the time. Locations fall through. People donʼt deliver. Life happens.

So instead of holding my breath until 'things are done,' Iʼm starting to breathe while Iʼm 'doing the things.'

I do my stretches and I turn into an air traffic controller. I do it with joy and excitement because, Iʼm getting to land planes!

As Seth Godin says, we should be so lucky as to be people who get to solve interesting problems.

Landing planes means weʼre not on the sideline of ideation but weʼre executing, which means weʼre getting closer to making our visions come to life.

It will always be hard, but it should also be fun.

Every landed plane deserves some kind of celebration.

Whether it be a quick toast or a high five, you absolutely must celebrate along the way.

One last thought on landing planes. As you put those puppies on the ground, know that you have a choice. Landing planes can be exhausting and defeating, OR it can be exciting and hopeful.

Each new plane coming your way can feel like itʼs driving you deeper into the ground of despair as you cry out, 'No, not another one!' Or, you can see these planes as yet another amazing chance for you to be better, to grow, to try, and to get you one step closer to making your dream a reality.

Breathe. Do your stretches. Donʼt freak out. Land those planes. Celebrate each one that hits the tarmac.

Then repeat, repeat, repeat."

... ... ...

Above is my favorite excerpt from Blaine Hogan's book, Untitled. In ministry, I often felt exactly how he described—nothing ever really seemed "finished". Each completion or victory would just bleed straight into the ongoing work that still needed to be done. I so appreciate Blaine's challenge to breathe "while I'm doing the things" and to find ways to celebrate the accomplishments along the way. A good and timely word for my heart.

Anything stand out to you in this passage?

Buy a copy of Untitled >

choose joy pendant

My heart is so full right now that my eyes are overflowing tears... There's a bittersweet mixture of grief and joy in there, but if I've learned anything the past few years, it's that both often reside together. And no one modeled that for me better than my friend Sara. Despite illness, pain, and so much loss, she made the continual decision to choose joy. I'm not talking about a plastic facade of happiness. Sara had the kind of genuine joy that comes from the simple but oftentimes hard decision to trust that God remains in control even when everything is spiraling out of control.

In her life and also in her death, Sara taught me lifetimes' worth about trusting Jesus, loving well, and choosing joy. I know she did the same for so many around the world. Being homebound only extended Sara's reach, and thousands of people have continued to embrace and live out her mantra: Choose joy.

I've been working with the incredible artisans at Tag...You're It Jewelry to create a custom pendant in Sara's own handwriting. And I just got to see the finished product. What they came up with is beautiful and inspiring and completely Sara...

The pendant is formed from scratch out of precious metal clay; then stamped and fired in either bronze or silver. Its shape is organic and imperfect, and because they are handmade, each one is slightly different. Sara would love that subtle reminder of the beauty in our imperfections.

I'm so happy with the way these came out—such a beautiful token of Sara's incredible life, legacy, and heart. And of course a constant reminder to choose joy.

Tag...You're It is offering a 30% discount to Sara's global community. Use the following coupon codes:

For 30% off the silver pendant: GITZENGIRLSILVER For 30% off the bronze pendant: GITZENGIRLBRONZE

Visit Tag...You're It's online store to place your order.

This one's for you, Fritz...

hustling for worthiness

"As I conducted my research, I realized that only one thing separated the men and women who felt a deep sense of love and belonging from the people who seem to be struggling for it. That one thing is the belief in their worthiness. It’s as simple and complicated as this: If we want to fully experience love and belonging, we must believe that we are worthy of love and belonging.

When we can let go of what other people think and own our story, we gain access to our worthiness—the feeling that we are enough just as we are and that we are worthy of love and belonging. When we spend a lifetime trying to distance ourselves from the parts of our lives that don’t fit with who we think we’re supposed to be, we stand outside of our story and hustle for our worthiness by constantly performing, perfecting, pleasing, and proving."

-Brené Brown

tabula rasa

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The pessimist in me (or as I prefer to call it, the realist) struggles to see a new year as a fresh start. Because really, the only thing that makes January 1st remarkably different than December 31st is that it lies on a new calendar. It's just another day.

But the longing-to-hope part of me acknowledges the new beginnings that come with a new year. I can see the tabula rasa — the blank slate — of a new calendar. It's a blatant opportunity to leave yesterday's baggage behind and move forward with a clean start.

And yet I find myself instinctively clinging to baggage like a flotation device.

Baggage like my deeply-rooted feelings of shame, rejection, and not-enough-ness. Baggage like my insecurities and fears—of failure, of abandonment, of not measuring up.

I cling to them like my life depends on it—when in actuality they're not life preservers, but deadweights that keep me fighting to stay afloat.

So I close my eyes tight and repeat over and over: I am enough.

And with each whisper, my fingers ever-so-slightly start to loosen their death grip.

A new year. A new day. A new moment. Tabula rasa.

I am enough.

it's not about doing more

I've lived most of my life by shoulds. Growing up, I was the all-American good girl. I did well in school. I went on mission trips. I moved to Africa when I was 19 to serve as a missionary. I did everything "right". By the book. The way I was supposed to, expected to, told to. The way I should. But the treadmill of striving is exhausting. If only I could do more... If only I could do better... Yet for every should I managed to check off, more got added to the list. It was a vicious cycle of defeat.

In my painful journey of the past few years, I realized how badly I needed to stop should-ing on myself. And I discovered how challenging it can be to get off that treadmill.

One of the ways I've found some freedom from the should shackles has been by ditching New Year's Resolutions. I used to make a long list of goals I'd like to achieve in the new year, but never managed to live up to them (or, at times, even remember what they were).

It only left me feeling like a failure.

So I began choosing just One Word as I step into a new year. One word that sums up who I want to be, or a character trait I want to develop, or an attribute I want to intentionally add to my life.

And since it's just one word, it's easy to remember. I place reminders of it around my home and workspace, and I inevitably start seeing and hearing it everywhere, which helps me stay mindful of it.

One year, I committed to risk more—it forced me to step out of my comfort zone and do things I wouldn't ordinarily do. Another year, my word was look—it gave me eyes to see God's divine fingerprints even in the darkest of moments. This past year, my word was choose—a daily reminder that while I can't control what happens to me, I can always choose my response.

My One Word isn't another to-do list. It's simply a guide as I make decisions, set plans, and go about my every day.

And I've seen these words shape not only my year, but also myself. They've challenged me, inspired me, changed me. Such is the power of intentionality.

I've chosen enough as my One Word for 2013, and with equal parts trepidation and curiosity, I am anxious to see how it will grow me this coming year.

Will you join me in choosing One Word for the year? It's not about doing more, but about being who you were created to be.

Maybe a word popped right into your head. Maybe you need to let the idea percolate a bit longer. Either way, more often than not, your word finds you.

You’ll probably have a love/hate relationship with it. That’s okay. If it doesn’t scare you at least a little bit, it’s probably not the right word.

So… Together, let's stop should-ing on ourselves.

What do you want to focus on in 2013? Who do you want to be by the end of the year?

Once you've landed on your word, write a blog post about it. Then add it to the community link-up on the One Word 365 site.

Originally posted on SheLovesMagazine. Read the comments there >