But the shape we meant to make is gone.

There's an Iron & Wine album that I go to when I want familiarity and comfort. I've been pulling it out recently. It's funny because it started out as what I call my, "paper writing music." Originally, I bought the album, because I wanted something that would foster creativity, but wouldn't distract me. I wanted something that would sound good in my ears, but I couldn't sing along to. It started as background noise to fill unwanted silence and to drown out the chaos around me. It did accomplish those things. I met the goal that I set out to achieve with these songs, but they have done so much more than fill space. They have done so much more than drown out the intensity of the noises around me.

I have listened to these songs in my favorite coffee houses, in the many rooms of the many homes that I have known over the past fews years. I've listened to these songs on the lawn of the Court of Carolina and on rainy days in the common area of the 1911 building. I've listened to these songs in cars and in headphone on planes. I've listened to these songs as I've filled the empty pages of books with the pieces of my little heart all out of order.

I've listened to these songs while writing, but what I've come to notice about these songs that started out as just songs, is that I've also listened to them while doing so many other life things. They started as songs to listen to while writing for school, but I've listened to them while reading the words of others, while cooking dinner, while thinking and praying and hoping for more out of all of this nothingness.

What began as nothing has become my comfort, my safety. What began as an ends to a means has become the means itself. I now know every word to every one of the songs on this album. I know these songs like they are a part of me. I know them in the way that a bird knows how to fly. They make sense in my world like the back of my hand makes sense.

But I had no intention of all that when I set out to find a few songs to listen to while I did homework. I've known that this paper writing music affects the way I write my papers. What I haven't always known is the way these songs have bled over into my heart. I want them around so often when I'm writing, but I also just want them around so often because I have found in them beauty and hope, glimpses of forever and encouragement to stand up and get my hands dirty.

You know, so often I think of the things that I do as a way to accomplish other things. I drive my car to arrive at a specific destination. I sing in church on Sunday to give glory to a God that loves me. I ask a sister, "what is wrong?" to get to the bottom of the issue. I cry to feel the pain of waiting. I laugh to share in the joy we have been given. And these are all good things.

But these songs remind me that there is purpose and value and meaning behind the way we do the thing that accomplish the other things. It matters how I go about writing my papers, driving my car, singing my songs. It all matters, because these things are not just a means to an end. These things are shaping me and they are shaping us. These things are shaping the way that I interact with the world around me and they are shaping the way that I interact with my Father. These things that I do matter and the way that I do these things that I do matter too.

Sometimes that is beautiful. Sometimes that is scary.

I am grateful for these songs full of beauty and truth. I am thankful for the empty space they create each time I turn them on. Space to exist honestly and without expectation, space to do nothing, space to do everything that matters.

Maybe you have a space like this too. My hope is that you do. Maybe it looks like an album. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe I'm nuts.

More recently when I listen to these old and familiar songs I have been reminded of the beauty that so often exists in the mundane. If we would just take a moment to look we might just see Jesus. We might see him in the paper writing or phone call making or grocery store shopping. We might just get a glimpse of eternity if we would begin to live like a people who really believe that we spend all of our days with endlessly valuable, eternal souls surrounding us.

I'm not sure that I can put words to the comfort I've found in these paper writing, heart beating, life giving songs that I listen to every now and then. They have convinced me that very little, if anything at all, is neutral. I am learning every day that there is nothing we do that only fills space. Things can feed us or take from us, point us to truth or point us away from truth. Things we do and the way we do the things we do all matter if not for any reason other than the fact that they are all changing us in one way or another.

Give me eyes, ears, hands and feet that care deeply about how I get from point A to point B and how I help others do the same. Let me love the gray. Quiet my soul and give me your peace.

Give me understanding that I may live.

Anyone who wonders if they're welcome back at home.

I am always longing for a place that feels like home, for a place that is a home. I've wanted people and places to feel like home that never could, but I've also known spaces that have felt overwhelmingly comfortable, like I belonged there. I want to feel like I matter somewhere. I want to feel safe. I want a place where I can rest and be fueled in order to go out every day and do. Because I want to do things that matter.

Honestly, I moved to Greensboro (the second time), because I wanted to feel at home. And I do. But if you could flashback to the first time I moved to Greensboro, you would find a girl in the midst of something that has no resemblance to a homecoming. This place has been so many different things to me.

This city has been my enemy. There have been days and months and years when I have wanted out. I have wanted freedom from this place. I have wanted a choice, a chance to leave the prison that I created for myself here. I have been angry at the people that put me here and forced me to stay. I have fought hard against new people and places knowing me here. I have wanted to hold onto my past, because there was a time in my life when giving Greensboro a place in my heart felt like letting go of the beauty and comfort of my foundation. I never want to forget where I have come from and how I got here. There is so much to remember and be thankful for before I ever even stepped foot in this city.

This place had been my best friend. I have cried and complained about having to leave her for a time. I have loved the comfort of these places that fill my days. I have loved the people of this city and the diversity that my community has to offer. I have found hope and transformation and love and redemption all in this place. I have known the joys of newness and the wonders of old things that still feel brand new here. I have loved big here. And the second time around it was very much like a homecoming.

Here, I've known both heartbreak and the joys of a full heart. I've done tears here, lots of tears. But I've also done smiles and laughter and talks full of meaning and hope and possibility. I've hated it here, and I've wanted to be anywhere else, but I've also loved it; I've found myself angry and sad and confused in the times that I've had to leave. But, then again, I've also found myself missing the comforts of somewhere else.

It feels so unstable when I look back over the journey that has been my experience with this city. I've loved other places too, but here has been different. Here I have found healing that feels like the breaking of chains that have held me captive for so long. No place has met so many of my longings all at one time while simultaneously leaving me feeling afraid and alone and looking for more.

This is my home. These streets are my home and these people are my home. I like my neighborhood and my backyard and the restaurants and stores that fill this place. I also like my neighbors and the people that fill my days.

But home is not always easy and I've struggled to accept and come to terms with that fact. Pain and confusion and disillusion fill my pretty little home. Death and suffering, you have no place in my home, and yet here you are, filling the time and space that make up this place. Who knew that a place full of redemption and wonder and awe could so quickly turn to a place full of sadness and anxiety? Can all of those things exist in the same space? Yes, redemption is here, but so is humanity and the inevitable cracks that attempt to compromise the fullness of our hope. Sometimes it's all just too much.

I can hold a mean grudge; I know I can and I usually know when I'm doing it. It's not one of my more favorable qualities. I have a tendency to get stuck dwelling on things that I think ought not to have happened. It's particularly deadly when I can find a specific person to aim all of the grudging energy towards (whoops). I'm trying to work on it.

More recently, I have found myself frustrated with my home, with the city and people that make up this place. Home should feel safe and it hasn't. Home should be a place of rest and I've forgotten what rest even looks like. Home should be a lot of things that have been stripped from us recently, and I am angry about it. Can you hold a grudge against the people and places that you call home? I think I am doing that right now.

"Regardless of what you feel or what I feel, I hope, pray and believe that there is something after this."

A sweet friend and woman of wisdom recently spoke those words to me. How I wish that I could learn to speak them to myself. So often, when I write I feel like I end up saying that same thing over and over again. Apparently, I need repetition. Her reminder saved my heart from the trap and allure of a grudge that I was never meant to hold.

Is the bitterness still there? Well, yeah. But I can see clearly now the damage it has done in the past. This isn't the first time I have held a grudge against the people and places of this city. This isn't the first time darkness has penetrated my safe place. But this is the first time I have been able to look back and see all of the beauty my Father created out of that darkness. It doesn't make the darkness any more light and it doesn't make the ugliness any more enjoyable, but I have been able, for the first time, to remember that there is something after this and that I believe with all of my heart that he will do it again. He will bring light out of darkness and create beauty from ashes.

I believe those things. And my prayer is that I wold learn to move forward in expectation of them, leaving the grudges behind.

It's not really about this place. I love Greensboro and I love North Carolina. From the bottom of my heart, I love this place. Sometimes I expect too much out of my home. I've come to realize that home is here and home is there and home is everywhere in between. I'm glad. I really never thought that home would feel like anywhere other than right here, but home is where you are. Home is where you are living, home is where you dwell. The journey has been both painful and rewarding. It has been full of ups and downs. The journey home is not yet done.

That's the kicker. That's the part that knocks me off my feet every time I have to relearn the lesson. I love my home, but I am also searching and longing for more. I am also restless. I need more out of my home than this place can give. One day I will know what it is to feel at home and to feel content at the same time. It's hard wanting something that I know I can't have. But I hope to continue longing for that day all the while knowing that home is here and home is now.

Thank you for a home that I can lean into.

How painful it must be, to bruise so easily.

I have been apologizing a lot lately. To my friends, to my clients, to the woman that sold me Q Tips at Target the other night. I've apologized to Finley, my dog. I've apologized to my mom and to Walker. I even apologized to my washing machine the other day. Pretty much if I haven't apologized to you, I probably have felt like I should have. 

It was small at first, this feeling. It started off as a small seed of anxiety, a little feeling of having a small plate with a lot on it. It started because I was feeling overwhelmed. It started because I was feeling stressed. Stress, for me, doesn't typically look like one might think it should. I usually sleep fine. I usually don't talk about the things that I am stressed about, not a lot at least. I usually carry them quietly at the very center of my body so that no one, especially the people that might be looking, can see them. I carry them in the inner most part of me, my core, where the light cannot get to them. There they stay hidden and secret. There they are free to carry on, but only for as long as they remain covered by darkness.  

For whatever reason that did not seem to be an option this time around. Maybe it was because things felt heavier than they have in the past. Maybe because there were more things than there usually are. Maybe because the things were different than the typical things. Maybe there is a different reason that I can't see. Maybe I am just changing. Regardless of the reason, my usual way of handling and interacting with stress and anxiety and pain didn't come through. Something was up and it showed. And that was hard for me. That is hard for me. That feels scary and out of control and risky. It also feels like I'm whining when I don't want or mean to be. It also feels like I'm needy when I don't want or mean to be. But it also feels good. Like the kind of light that is blinding and too much for your eyes to handle, but once they adjust you can see better than you've ever seen before.

And even with all that light, I know there is still so much I cannot see. 

Thank you for seeing. Thank you for keeping me where the light is. Thank you for that push and shove and kick I needed to stay out of the cave, out of the pit, out of the darkness that I have known so well for so long. 

I turned into a kind of zombie. Not the kind that eats people, but the kind that walks through life in a daze with perpetual sleepy eyes. It felt like I had too much. It feels like I have too much. I felt tired. Not sleep deprived, but exhausted in every sense except for physically. I felt like I couldn't do it all and so I allowed my heart to go into hibernation. It didn't shut down, but it did slow down. It didn't refuse to take on new things, but it was hesitant and overly sensitive and protective and defensive. 

If I'm honest, it's still doing those things some days. I am still a little overly sensitive and hesitant. And to be honest, I'm alright with that, with how my heart is acting. I don't want to be like this forever. I don't want my heart to stay always in hibernation, but I do need for it to keep beating and while a hesitant heart is not the most open, it does allows for life to remain. 

Roughly one year ago, I was told that I ought to allow myself to create imperfectly. If I had to make a list of the top five things I have learned over the past year that would definitely be at the top of the list; It has been huge for me. It was discussed in the context of an artist making something. Whether it be a writer and a novel or a musician and a song or a painter and a painting. 

"Fears about art making fall into two families: one, fear about yourself, and two, fear about your reception by others. In a general way, fear about yourself prevents you from doing your best work, while fear about your reception by others prevents you from doing your own work. " Art & Fear

Whatever the craft, we must allow ourselves to create imperfectly, otherwise will will never create. Otherwise, we will never share with the world or even with one other person the things that we have made. Otherwise, we risk becoming obsessed with making our work perfect; we will never create or we will create less, we will miss out on things we could be making or doing while we over analyze every little detail of our work. Have pride in your work. Do your best. Blah. Blah. Blah. But realize and understand that no one is perfect and no one can continually create perfection. Allow yourself to be what you are: imperfect. And allow your work to be the same.

It was liberating for me. As a writer, I feel connected and exposed by the things that I write. I feel more vulnerable allowing someone to read something that I have written than I would sitting down and having a conversation with the very same person about the very same thing. So the thought of writing something that I am not 150% happy with and then sharing it with someone else that I do not 150% trust can be debilitating. For a long, long time I didn't share those things with anyone. For a long, long time it was debilitating. And honestly, it's still scary, but I've found that it's a risk I want to take. It's a risk I like to take. And it's a risk I believe I was created to take. Maybe one day it won't feel much like a risk anymore. I'm not there yet, but I am closer than I once was. I think that's something. 

The lesson has continued to surprise me and shape me and I continue to be terribly thankful for it. "Allow yourself to create imperfectly," has transformed into, "allow yourself to be imperfect." I would never have used the word, "perfectionist," to describe myself. Most people that know anything at all about me would not use that word to describe this girl. I was never a perfectionist in school; I never lost sleep over making As on tests or papers. I've never worried too much about others having a high view of what I am capable of. Yeah, it's annoying when someone doesn't believe in me. I don't like that feeling, but me, by myself knowing that I am capable is usually enough. I'm pretty comfortable answering a question with a simple, "I don't know." So often I don't know. I'm usually content without knowing. 

It gets sticky when we start to talk about how I manage and deal with things that are not easy to manage or deal with, hard things. I want one of two things. One, I want you to have no idea how I manage or deal with those things or two, I want you to think that I manage and deal with those things perfectly. In this area I want to at least appear as if I am a perfectionist. I know that I am not perfect at these things, but I don't want anyone else to know that. Coming to this realization was like meeting a part of myself I had never met before. We are still getting to know each other. We like each other, at least I like her. I don't always know how she feels about me. It's funny finding a part of myself that is so different from the other parts that I more often identify with. I am trying to teach her that it's ok to not be perfect and more than that it's ok for other people to see that you're not perfect. And she is trying to teach me something too. But I haven't quite figured out exactly what that is yet. 

My heart is not perfect, of this I am sure. I do want an open heart. I promise, that is something that I desire. But something else I desire is that I might find a way to allow my heart to be exactly where it is. Right now, part of the imperfection in me, looks like a heart that is having a hard time remaining open like a lake. I want to allow for that imperfection to exist, because it's honest, all the while hoping for something more, hoping for change to come into my heart. I want two opposite things at the same time. I feel two opposite ways at the same time (lesson number two for the year, but that's a different story).

I'm not done apologizing, because I do things every day that merit regret, but I am done (or at least I want to be done) hiding. The response to my imperfection was surprising. No one told me to quit whining. No one told me to stuff those things back into the place where no light can get to them. No one told me I was being needy. I was the only one that said those words. You told me it was ok. You told me that I wasn't alone. You told me that you wanted to know. You told me that you were with me. Beautifully terrible.

The first surprise I can say that I am truly, truly thankful for.  

I don't know why our words are so proud

Yet their promise so thin

And our lives blow about 

Like flags in the wind

You who mourn will be comforted

You who hunger will hunger no more

All the last shall be first 

Of this I am sure

You who weep now will laugh again

All you lonely, be lonely no more

Yes, the last will be first

Of this I am sure

I don't know why the innocents fall 

While the monsters still stand 

I don't know why the little ones thirst 

But I know the last shall be first 

BF

Letting darkness grow as if we need its palette & we need its color.

Sometimes my to do list is my best friend. It gives me structure and goals to reach for. It fills my time and helps me feel like I have something small to hold on to and control when so many other things seem big and overwhelming. Crossing things off of my list brings me comfort. It makes breathing seem easier. I like structure. I like schedule. I like routine and I like to do lists.

I like all of those things until I don't. Most times they are life giving. Most times they give me fuel. Most days lists and schedules make me excited and happy to do the things the I need to do, but sometimes I feel like I'm being suffocated. Sometimes I hate my lists and schedules and reminders. Sometimes I just want to run and hide from my lists and my schedule. I want to have days where I do what I want to do when I want to do it just because I want to. Some days I want to chuck the schedule and eat lunch for 2 hours. I want to go to bed at 3:00 am because I'm having a conversation that runs into the early morning. I want to do my work, but maybe not on the 9-5 schedule that I am on, even though most days I am thankful for the boundaries that 9-5 affords me.

Most days I love my schedule. Most days I cling to it for dear life. But some days every now and then I hate it. Don't ask me how I can absolutely love and absolutely despise the same exact thing. John Eldredge might tell you it's because I'm a woman. The Myers Briggs test might tell you it's because I'm an INFP. If you know me you know I am not fond of those answers; I think it's much more simple than that.

I think it has to do with being human, something to do with my soul's cry for forever.

Maybe. Maybe not.

I think we were all born with longings in our hearts. I long for comfort and peace and joy. I want to feel worthwhile, like I matter. I want to feel like dreaming isn't a dead end road. Don't we all feel those things? Don't we all long for those things to feel true in our hearts?

Maybe not everyone feels that way. But I do. And most of the time when I look at my list, it points me to eternity, it fills just a hint of my longing for true purpose and real comfort and belonging. But other times I look at my schedule and I want to cry because all I can see and all I can feel is the weight of a to do list that will never be able to meet all of the needs around me. Most of the time I see the good in my schedule and structure, but every now and then I feel the absolute destitution of a to do list broken and corrupt.

I wrote the following about a month ago. I wrote it when I was having one of those days where I hate a lot of things that I usually love. I had just started a new job and I was feeling overwhelmed.

"It feels a little bit like I can’t breathe right now. People talk all the time about there not being enough hours in the day but I’ve never understood that feeling exactly the way that I do right now. I want to do this work. I want to be in this setting, with these clients, these people, but I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning. I don’t want to feel like I can’t breathe. I don’t want to feel like I am sinking and pulling everyone around me down with me. I want to feel like I am doing something good. I want to feel like I am doing more good than bad. I want to feel like I am doing something that matters. Right now I feel shell shocked. I can’t catch up. I can’t do it. There is too much for me to learn, too many people for me to please, too many clients for me to serve. There are too many needs and it’s hard because all of the needs are real and they are all big and they are all pressing right this very second. 

Even taking the time to prioritize all the needs feels like I am wasting time that I could be using to do something else vitally important. And then there is me. I want to have a life. I want to know myself outside of this place and I want to be known outside of this place. I want to feel full and happy and like I belong here. I want to feel full and more than that I want to actually be full. I want those things to be true, because I am 100% certain that I am a better person when those things are true. I am more like I was created to be when I have a life that is balanced. I am better able to help serve these people when I am full. I am getting to the end of my fuel tank and I need to be filled. 

Lord, help me to be full, because I feel empty and I cannot do this on empty. Help me to be full because without your help I will try and try and try to fill myself up with fuel that wasn't ever meant to sustain me. It won’t work. I want this to be a place where I shine, but I can’t shine on my own. I am struggling to see my worth. I am struggling to see the things that I do well. I am struggling to remember why I am here and how I got here and who you say I am. Help me to remember, because I will crash and burn without that reminder. 

Every day I want to know that I can get out of bed because you are here and you are alive and you will give to me all that I need for every second of every moment. Help me to live as if I actually believed that. Help me to live as if I actually knew how much hope I have. Give me hope. Fill me with hope every morning, and then again at lunch when I have forgotten and then again after work when I just want to cry. Remind me of your hope, because I so often forget. Fill me with your hope. Fill me with your love. Fill me with your mercy and grace. Fill me with your story all day, every day, because I am not going to fill myself with it. Left to my own devices I get to this place where I feel like I cannot breathe and the walls are caving in around me and I will be crushed. 

If I have to drown, Lord, may it be in your ocean of grace. If I have to be crushed, Lord, may it be by the weight of your love for me. If you must break me, God, make it for something worthwhile. I love it here. I love these people. I love this place. Remind me why I can be here. Remind me why I can be overworked and underpaid. Remind me why it’s ok that I do not have enough hours in the day. Tell me again who it is that I answer to. Give me strength to face the misery that is painted on so many of our client’s faces. Give me wisdom to speak your words of love. Give me power to proclaim the hope that you have called me to. Give me grace upon grace upon grace upon grace, because I am going to fail. A lot. Remind me why it is ok to fail. Help me to extend to others the same grace that I ask for you to extend to me. I miss you. I love you. Help me." 

I need to be reminded so often. I need to look for hope even when all I feel is the weight of pain, the stress of brokenness, the anxiety of a life lived in between times.

Please let this wind blow me home.

I prayed two days ago that he would find comfort. I prayed that he would find peace and rest. I prayed that God would give him joy, that we might see him smile again. I prayed that he would feel loved and protected. I prayed that God would take away his fear, his frustration, and his pain. I prayed that he would once again know hope.

He didn’t seem to have very much rest the past few days. Comfort seemed impossible to find. Joy, only in the moments when his eyes caught those of his daughter or son or wife. I want him to still be here. I want him to ask me what I thought of the latest Eagles game. I want him to playfully roll his eyes as he realizes my “political rebellion,” has rubbed off in subtle, small ways onto his daughter. I want to hear about the latest book he’s been reading. I want to listen as he and Sarah debate who has the best basketball program in the ACC. I want him to be here and I’m angry. I want him to be here and it’s just not fair that he’s gone. I want him here. And I am sad.

He went home to be with Jesus late last night. He left his body and the rest of us behind and he went home. We cried and cried and cried. Last night was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do. To watch this man that I love die, to look into his eyes and to know that I will never be able to see them again, to watch as his family grieves their loss. The most heartbreaking thing I have ever known.

I am sad for Sarah and I am sad for Wes and I am sad for Lisa, but I am also just sad, because I love him. He made me laugh and he made me feel like I was a part of a family that I wasn’t really a part of. He welcomed me into his life, into his home, into his family day after day, week after week, year after year. He gave me advice and he asked me about my life. Sometimes he was frustrated when he tried to watch the news while Sarah, Lisa and I talked too loudly in the kitchen. He didn’t always love when I showed up at midnight unannounced, but I never doubted whether or not I belonged. Not one second of doubt. Mr. Sutton has always made me feel welcome. The Suttons have always made me feel like I was one of them. The W always made me feel like I belonged. I can’t over emphasize how redemptive his treatment of me has been over the past eight years.

I am thankful for him, for his life and the legacy that he leaves behind in his beautiful children, who are honestly two of the most incredible individuals I know. I am thankful for his words of wisdom and his sense of humor. I am thankful for the ways that he challenged me. I am thankful for the ways that he encouraged me. I am thankful for how much love and support he poured into me year after year. I am thankful for the children that he raised and the pieces of him that I see in each of them. I am thankful for the wife that he has loved for twenty-nine years. I am thankful for how hard he worked to take care of them. I am thankful for his family. I am thankful. And I am sad.

He left us last night and after the initial tears, the shock set in. Is this really happening? Can we all wake up from this nightmare now?

I will never understand. I know that. I don’t know why children have to watch their parents die while they are still children. I don’t know why death comes and steals our loved ones away like it does. I don’t know why he seems to take the good dads and leave the other ones behind. I don’t know why some people get to live and some people have to die. I don’t understand. And I know I never will. The mystery of our Lord is not always beautiful from where I stand. Today, it is hard. Today, not understanding makes me angry and sad.

Today, not understanding doesn’t leave me in awe, it leaves me in tears. And I don’t know how to correct that. I don’t know how to pretend as if this feeling isn’t there. I don’t know how to move from anger and sadness and pain to wonder.

And I think maybe that’s ok.

“A broken and contrite heart, Oh God, you will not despise.”

So today we will be sad that he is gone, because there is certainly much to be sad about; there is certainly much to mourn.

Last night Sarah, Anthony and I sat together on the tiniest sofa in the tiniest, “Serenity Room,” at Wesley Long Hospital. Sarah looked around for a minute and finally she said, “he’s so happy now.” 

We are sad, but praise the God of comfort for we can take hold of the knowledge that he is no longer sad, he is no longer in pain, he is no longer afraid. We are sad, because we miss him, but he is not. He is not sad. You are right Suttontown, he is so very happy.

I know only a portion of the peace I will one day know in full. I know only a small amount of the rest I will one day find. I know only a hint of true comfort and joy and love. I know bits and pieces of those things. I have caught glimpses of the beauty we were meant for, but I feel it at the core of my heart, this fact: he now has all of those things in full. He has joy and rest and peace and love and beauty and God. He is free from his cancer. And he is home.

He found comfort. He found peace and rest. God gave him joy, and we will see him smile again. He has found love. He has found protection. He knows no fear. He knows no frustration. He feels absolutely no pain. And he is at the right hand of the God of hope.

He’s with Nana.

He’s with Anthony’s dad.

He’s with Ashley’s dad.

He’s with Anna’s dad.

And they are all with Jesus. 

Something changed inside me, broke wide open, all spilled out.

I went to Costa Rica for a week in August, and I’m still not entirely sure how to talk about it. I’m not entirely sure what I want to tell people or how I want to word what I want to tell people. Have mercy. I did my best.

I saw evil as up close and personal as I ever have before. The huge weight of the sex trade industry, the complete darkness surrounding prostitution, the urgency in the faces of orphaned children, the hopelessness of drug addiction; these things all looked me in the face and they leveled me. I looked into the eyes of human beings that are used repeatedly night after night and I saw deep brokenness. I saw the kind of brokenness that knocks the air out of your lungs. I saw poverty individually on the faces of countless children, but I also saw it in a bigger, systematic cycle. I saw women roll their eyes when I told them that God thinks they are beautiful. I saw fear in the eyes of a 14 year old mother. I saw so many things that filled my heart with pain and sadness and those things made days in Costa Rica hard.

I didn’t know what to do with all of those things. I still don’t know what to do with all of those things. The place where we were staying had stalls in the women’s bathroom. On one of the stall doors someone had written, “God is not based on feelings.” I read it the first day and laughed because it was right next to some cheesy David Crowder lyric that made me roll my eyes. But I read it again the next day. God is not based on feelings. And then again the next day. God is not based on feelings. I read it every day that we spent in Costa Rica, and eventually I came to feel that there was power in that statement.

God it not based on feelings, but I sure did feel a lot of very different, very intense, very deep feelings while I was in Costa Rica.

Joy.

I left the United States full of it. The day before we left I had the privilege of standing next to one of my favorite people as she married her best friend. The wedding was beautiful in every possible way. There was so much love and laughter and so much hope. Hope for a future full of Jesus, and hope for a life full of real love. I was and am so incredibly happy for these friends of mine. Their wedding, their relationship, and their marriage have all brought me so much joy.

Encouragement.

We met so many incredible people during our time in Costa Rica. We saw so many incredible things. We spent time building each other up as a team and we spent time in prayer for the people of Costa Rica. I felt loved. I felt the safety and comfort that community brings.

Exhaustion.

Amber and Brandon’s wedding was beautiful and flawless and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. The process was exhausting in the best kind of way. Leaving the reception I felt full and peaceful but I also felt tired. The following morning I met the rest of my Costa Rica team at the airport and we took off running.

You can ask anyone. I was the first one to sleep every night and the last one up every morning. I was just exhausted the entire week and I couldn’t seem to shake it. My body was tired. My heart was tired. My mind was tired. It seemed like every single inch of every single part of me was desperate for fuel. I felt helplessly exhausted.

Homesick.

Upon our arrival into Costa Rica, we were greeted by a country that looked, smelled, and tasted differently than anything I am used to. I’ve been out of the United States before and I work with people from all around the world. But in Costa Rica I gained a greater appreciation for how hard it must be for someone to leave everything they know and come to a new country, a new culture. I wasn’t uncomfortable or afraid. It wasn’t even that I didn’t like the culture of Costa Rica. It was beautiful and hugely humbling to see people do life so differently, and with so much beauty and grace.

It was hard for no other reason, except that I missed the comfort and stability of my own culture. I was tired and I wanted the comfort of home. How fortunate that nine times out of ten I have that option, that comfort. How humbling that so many do not.

Sadness.

Most days I spent at least some amount of time with children. We helped with a Vacation Bible School ministry. We visited several orphanages. We met incredible women who turned their homes into safe houses for abandoned children. We held babies and jumped rope and sang songs. We folded laundry and cleaned tables and organized shoes. We did things that needed to be done for these children. And I am glad we did it, I am glad that we were there, but more than anything these places filled me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. Sadness for these little souls who know so strongly what it is to be rejected. Sadness for the brokenness of so many families. Sadness for the countless fatherless babies. I felt sadness because the kids we met were perfect and so many of them didn’t know it.

I am an introvert except when it comes to babies and kids. Babies and kids give me things that adults do not. I can say this now only because I am not a parent and one day when I have kids of my own I will surely eat my words, but I love being around kids because they fill me up and make me laugh. They play game and sing songs and it makes my heart happy. They give love so freely and they feel feelings really well and I love that. They are honest in the best possible way and it is great.

It was really hard to be around so many beautiful kids in Costa Rica that genuinely needed things that they were not getting. I felt like they were giving me so much and there was nothing that I could give to them in return. I couldn’t put their pieces back together. All I could do was be there for a few days. All I could do was sing a song or play a game or fold some clothes. I felt guilty and sad that these precious little souls were filling me up and I had nothing to give them. I need for nothing. I felt like I was stealing their joy.

Anger.

I thought that seeing sex trafficking and prostitution in such a real way would make me sad. And, yeah, it did. But I felt anger more than anything else. I felt this burning hatred for the evil that swindles people out of their dignity. I felt animosity for the people that make this cycle continue. I felt outraged by the size of an industry that survives by taking pieces of people away from them and filling them with the lie that they are worth no more than a monetary value. We saw so much pain and confusion and loss and brokenness. And it made me angry, because it just doesn’t have to be that way. People are doing this to other people and it’s not right. It shouldn’t be happening.

I walked around all week in Costa Rica and I tried to remember that God is not based on feelings. I tried to remember that the Lord I serve is changeless. I tried to remember that he is sovereign and all-powerful and that he is good.  I tried to remember that the Lord is strong and loving and he is in complete control. I tried to remember that he loves me and he loves the people of Costa Rica.

I am still trying to remember that most days. I know it’s true. I know that God is not subject to my emotions at any particular moment, (and praise Him for that because sometimes I cry watching State basketball highlights) but the point is that even though I know he is not based on how I’m feeling, that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes it still doesn’t feel like he loves me or us or that man I met on the street in Costa Rica.

I know that he does. I know that it’s always true. He loves me more than I ever could imagine and he loves me all day every day. I believe those words and I ask that God would give me eyes to see his heart for the people of Costa Rica and for the people of this world. How our father’s soul must ache watching his children hurt so badly. God is not based on my feelings, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel things. Help me to feel the things that you feel, Lord. Help me to see things as you see them, through the lenses of a masterpiece that has already been completed in full. The race has been won. The fight is over. The enemy is defeated. That is not always easy to believe. Lord, help my unbelief. 

ponder anew.

I graduated well over a month ago. That is still hard to believe. Maybe not hard to believe. Maybe just funny or strange or uncomfortable. Maybe a little bit of all of those. About a month ago my mom, my brother, my godmother and I boarded a plane to Florence. Graduation trip. I am fortunate. I am spoiled. I have so much. All of these things I know. And yet, it is good to remind myself. I have so, so much. I am a poor, unemployed college graduate, and yet I have so, so much. Sometimes I act like I don't.

Europe. Our first stop was Florence where I loved walking through the street markets. Where I loved drinking Chianti and eating pasta. Where I attempted to speak Italian and wait until 9 PM to eat dinner. Where I climbed the 400 something stairs to the top of the Duomo and where I bought my very first piece of leather clothing. We ate well in Italy, enjoying every last bite of every last meal. We made our way to the coast and spent a day wandering between the five villages of Cinque Terre. Beauty was everywhere we looked. Unavoidable, unadulterated beauty. In the architecture, in the museums, in the people, in the art being created and displayed all around us.

Next, we found our way back to the airport and headed off to France. We spent three days in Paris walking from monument to monument, navigating the metro, climbing the Notre Dame, eating crepes, and taking in the grandness of such a brilliant city. I expected to love Paris, and I did love it. But more than anything Paris made me feel my smallness. A deep feeling of my tininess compared to the world around me, compared to the vast wealth and history of this place, compared to the God that I serve. Europe was lovely. Europe pointed me to infinity, to eternity and to the small part that my finite little body can and does play in all of that. Paris put me in my place and Paris taught me the thrills of being so small. I get to enjoy the bigness. I get to take in the wonder all around me. And I don't have to have all the answers, because I am small and there's just no way that I could know it all. Paris taught me to rest in wonder; there is peace there.

Barcelona was last on the schedule. It was a little more challenging to get there than we anticipated. We checked out of our hotel in Paris and took a taxi with all of our 10000000 bags to the airport. We checked our 100000000 bags. We were informed that the flight was an hour delayed. No one told us why. We didn't think much of it. No big deal. We made our way to the terminal and Walker and I set up camp at a little restaurant near our gate. We met an older couple that was also traveling to Barcelona. We talked to them for hours as our flight continued to be pushed back more and more.

Luckily our new friends spoke Spanish and French. Otherwise, we may never have gotten the news that our flight was cancelled. Something about lightening hitting the control tower. Or a workers strike. We're still not really sure. Our entire flight congregated around the information desk pleading for a way to our destination. We all just wanted to get to Barcelona.

Initially, we were told that buses would come and take us to a nearby airport where we would be able to catch a later flight to Spain. We walked with our new, Canadian friends to baggage claim where we retrieved our 100000000 bags and then headed to the designated bus pick-up spot.

And we waited. Along with everyone else on our flight, we waited for the buses to come. We waited for almost two and a half hours before we learned from our trilingual friends that there was in fact no other flight. Our airline had not gotten permission from the other airport to use their facility. We were still flightless.

Everyone around us was growing hungry and tired. By this point all of the shops and restaurants in the airport had closed. There was one small, red vending machine that got some good cash-flow that night.

At one point there was a woman from our flight that got pushed over by an airline worker as she attempted to take a picture of the crowd of people unhappily waiting for our buses to arrive. The police were called in more than one time as little fights (verbal and physical) broke out every so often.

We were eventually ushered back inside where we were promised refunds for our flight that never happened. We stood there waiting as more hours ticked by and no one came to help us. People had started passing around petitions and yelling chants, most of which were in Spanish, but I can assure you that they were not happy chants.

We debated finding a train to Spain. Families with small children began setting up camp in little territories around the airport. Small, makeshift homes for their babies to find some rest.

My family and I were growing anxious and unsure of where we were going to sleep and how we were going to get to our next destination. At 2:30 AM we finally managed to negotiate our way on to the 9:15 AM flight to Barcelona. We said our goodbyes to our new friends and went in search of a place to find some rest.

Our airline had showed us very little compassion throughout the whole process so when we stumbled upon some kind airport workers putting together cots for us to sleep on we fell into their arms without any hesitation. We were tired and thirsty and we hadn't eaten since noon. They gave us blankets and bottled water and pretzels and I am not sure that I have every been so thankful for the kindness of a stranger. They made me feel like I was human again.

At one point earlier in the night my little brother looked over at me and in his ever surprising wisdom he said, "Well, at least this can't last forever."

We half-slept, half-worried about our 10000000 bags of luggage being taken in a room with 50 other strangers.

I was dirty and tired and dehydrated. My clothes smelled like smoke and my eyes felt like they had dirt in them. The blanket that I had been given was not quite long enough to cover my body, but I laid there on my cot after using my 15 free minutes of airport wifi, and I thought about what Walker had said:

"At least this can't last forever."

This is but one night. I told myself, "you are tired and cranky and hungry, but this will be over so soon."

I thought about the people in my life dealing with things that do not have an end in sight. Disease and pain and death and mourning. I thought to myself that I would rather do this for 100 nights than go through the hard things that they and many like them are facing. I would rather do this for 100 nights than watch these people that I love walk through such darkness.

Laying there in that room with so many people around me, again I remembered my smallness. I was reminded of my lack of power. My finiteness. I have nothing to give. I cannot change these things. They are so big and I am so small. I didn't have the power to end the workers strike or to stop the storm and I don't have the power to heal sick bodies or to take away deep, soul pain. I can't do any of those things. I just can't.

I am but one little person. I am but myself and that is as it ought to be. No more can I remember how small I am before I am reminded of how big my father is. He was there that night in the airport and he is there with the people that I love in the darkness, in the pain and in the fear. He is there in the hospitals and in the homes. He is there. And he is not small.

I couldn't help but think of all of the things we had visited in Italy and France. Human beings spent so much time and energy and money building these magnificent churches and sanctuaries. My family and I visited them in every city we went to. They are all huge and they are all beautiful. They are without a doubt filled with true grandeur. They are wonderful.

I was reminded, laying on my cot in the airport hall that He is so much bigger, so much more beautiful than the tallest tower or the most intricate painting.

And then I fell asleep, uncomfortable as I had been in a very long time, full of questions that I still do not have the answers to, but brimming with peace knowing that I lay in my Father's great big arms.

Lord, help my unbelief.