Quiet Waters

“The sea is his, for he made it, and his hands formed the dry land.” (Psalm 95:5)

“Moses answered the people, ‘Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.’” (Exodus 14:13-14)

My thirst is quenched by the mighty flood of the Lord; above me is the waterfall of the Spirit—crashing down to soak my soul with a gentle raging power—below, the ubiquitous thick rainforest steam rising up to steep my skin and lungs in its warm, wet glow. I sit at the shoreline of His broad ocean, bright shining with the light of the Morning Star, waiting for healing to come—and am met by the rising tide and lapping waves, kisses tickling blisters, cooling bruises and sore feet. I am a drip in the ocean and the whole of the ocean is cupped in His hand and still He sees me.

“‘Therefore, say to the Israelites: “I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. I will free you … and I will redeem you… I will take you as my own… And I will bring you to the land I swore with uplifted hand to give to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob. I will give it to you as a possession. I am the LORD.”’” (Exodus 6:6-8)

This is the marriage proposal of my King, and His promise is to plant me “like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever [it] does prospers” (Psalm 1:3). I am a mangrove, not planted beside but swamped in His living water, surrounded on all sides by His green warm nourishment, soaked to overflowing, His precious guarded garden. The Everglades. Eden.

“LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” (Psalm 16:5-6)

The Lord has decided on that portion, and it is the end of barrenness—it is the richness of endless oil pouring a continual steady rain of life, glossing my heart with the fresh dewdrops of a brilliant new morning.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.” (Psalm 23:5-6)

It is endless, this fullness of joy and brimming over of blessings, these endless glorious riches of Christ Jesus, the fullness of the knowledge of His presence, the hope of glory. I am filled and anointed and blessed to pour out, anoint and bless. I am the fruit-laden tree, never giving from need, but bounty—food for the hungry, rest for the weary. Birds hidden in branches cry out their song, a mellow lulling lovely refrain for the anxious in spirit who have come to abide in my shade. I give from the fullness of life I’ve been given, from the stores of oil and flour that never run empty. I give from the flood of gifts of my immeasurable God.

“I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” (Ephesians 3:16-18)

My Lord knows where I am, and He has come after me and has found me. I am rooted in His depths of love—deep calls to deep—rooted in the deep veins of pure underground streams untouched, untapped, unblemished, rich with the minerals of the earth. I cannot be pulled out. I am His perfect bride, enraptured by His covenant promises. I cannot be pulled away. My being is stretched to the edges of infinity, eternity is in my heart, everlasting in the light and love of my Lord, and still He fills me to eager excess and fills me with hope for this new monsoon season. I need only be still.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13)

Desert Land

“O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you. My soul thirsts for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water.” (Psalm 63:1)

“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. Where can I go and meet with God?” (Psalm 42:1-2)

This summer has been dry for my soul. It has been a summer of harsh heat, of bruised reeds and smoldering coals, of a laziness that keeps one in the dimness of a stifling room, unmoved and unmoving—the only sound the whirring wings of a single, over-sized fly.

I have wandered this desert land for two months; I have felt the long weary dead distance to God, the strain of walking through sand, the burnt breaking skin, the rattling gasps of dry lungs breaking free from bleeding cracked black lips. Hour after hour, day after day—wavering heat rises from the endless, empty horizon and unrelieved sand. My steps slip on hillsides as I wander, aimlessly, eyes squinting shut, having no clear nor vague idea to look for water. The dullness of my senses prevents me from being taken in by mirages.

Was there life in this place—anything restorative or redemptive at all to stumble across by chance? Was there any way to lighten this load, to refresh the soul? Would it ever rain again—would heaven ever open with a glorious peal of sudden thunder and crack open the clouds with lightning would the sky drop, turning asphalt black and plastering the brilliant orange of autumn leaves to the pavement would the land be soaked again, dripping with the life and light of the Lord of hosts? Where was the ocean? Where was the Spirit?

“Jesus answered her, ‘If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.’” (John 4:10)

I’m asking, Lord! I’m asking! I know—I’ve tasted it! Restore my passion for your voice and redeem my heart’s wilting petals from its ugly, soulless malaise.

“Jesus answered, ‘Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’” (John 4:13-14)

Give me this water, Lord! I’m thirsty! I hear and know and believe the promises, but my dry tongue still distracts. I desperately look around me for one muddy puddle. I feel in my depths a faintness overtake me, but out of the darkness hear a voice:

“The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come!’ And let him who hears say, ‘Come!’ Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.” (Revelation 22:17)

And with the painful realization of my weakness I sit, a messy heap in the dust, without to energy to go. If He wishes me to rise, He must bring me the water Himself. And I sit, and I wait quietly, watching, and in the stillness—perhaps I will give in to images without resistance—hope breaches the crest of the sandy slope before me. I watch its crawling progress to the trough where I lay—it sends tiny stones skittering down to meet my face, a gentle avalanche assuring me of hope’s actual existence.

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior." (Habakkuk 3:17-18)

My Lord knows where I am. I cannot flee from His presence or go from His Spirit or be hidden by darkness. He will leave the ninety-nine to find me, and will lead me again by quiet waters, and lead me out of this darkness and into His marvelous light. He is the Alpha and the Omega, and He has come, and is offering “water without cost from the spring of the water of life” (Revelation 21:6). I hear His song and am lifted from the dirt and my heart from darkness and my spirit from despair.



Source: gracehilladultcare.com



And I am brought through another season and am washed clean and made new by His great, tender love and great, forever patience; and I breathe in, lungs stretched full, heart stretched full, and breathe out—a lazy, contented sigh of relief warmed again by the closeness of His presence.

“Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will respond as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt.” (Hosea 2:14-15)

Even Then

“But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14)

Much has happened recently, which makes the idea of writing a little stressful—I prefer writing in chronological order, or at least topical, but many things have piled up in a ragged, anxious, colorful heap of yet-to-be-unwound creative ideas. For instance, there are still one or two aspects of Miami that should have been addressed. Or, there were those four hours, one day late in April, which were epically strange and changed the course of my life forever.

 Or, the fact that I graduated from NYU two days ago.

 But this most likely will be my only post for May, as I leave for San Diego this Sunday until June—my brief break from New York during which I will gain even more loose threads needing weaving—and my last two days have been pivotal enough to deserve special attention.

 My parents and I flew home yesterday, and I’ve mostly spent my time deep-cleaning my room: sorting through relics of the last 21 years, getting coated in dust, reminiscing, and generally being amused by the things I uncovered. Notably, there were just piles and piles of awards I’d strove so hard for in high school and found my identity in. Many I don’t remember ever receiving and many, I’m happy to say, I threw out without a twinge. The change God wrought in me during college was very good.
 

“But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ…” (Philippians 3:7-8)

There were some hidden gems that I must list here: agendas from high school and freshmen year of college, a physics homework dated 4 May 2007, a purple Walkman with an Andy Williams Christmas CD still in it, four seasons' worth of line-ups for track and field meets, unbelievably embarrassing scraps of stories written by my younger—and apparently already relationship challenged?—self (that will never again see the light of day), my UCLA acceptance letter (Why did I keep that? What might my life have looked like?), and an old notebook comparing college choices—“NYU- Actuarial Science” with a little star next to it.

 

 

I threw all of it out with little remorse. (Except the Walkman—that CD definitely wasn't mine). It was a beautiful and remarkably cleansing experience, sloughing off dead skin, a false mask I'd clung to for years, layers and layers of dust and rubbish and stains. Even though I didn't remember many of the artifacts, it was uplifting and a final release to see them disappear underneath the black lip of the industrial-sized garbage bags. I was actively and very physically putting aside elements of my old self and choosing God—another baptism, my second in three weeks—and it was perfectly symbolic for this unique time of transition in my life. 

 

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!" 
(2 Corinthians 5:17)
 

Somewhat surprising to me, however, was that there were fairly frequent run-ins with Christian paraphernalia dated pre-college: a “Got Jesus?” book cover and cross necklaces I beaded myself. Since I officially consider my turning point during my freshmen year of college, it was interesting to see little indications of how Christ was drawing me toward Himself even then.

 

 

 My favorite encounter, though, was a notebook I seem to have intended to fill with a thorough analysis of the [NKJV] Bible. I started with Genesis, poor me, which may explain why only about a page and a third of this 500-page notebook was filled. (Or, it could just be indicative of my eternal habit to not finish things). But it is dated 23 March 2006, which is almost two years prior to the day that I really ‘accepted Christ’—diving headfirst into His comfort for the sake of my life—what, again, I call my turning point. And it does contain some interesting observations—I wrote out Genesis 1:26 and noted that it was important because it tells that we are created in His image. In response to Genesis 2:3, I noted that, ‘If God will take a break and be appreciative, we can too.’

I failed to take that advice for the longest time.

I just keep thinking how, even among so much junk I threw away without a second glance, even then, there were precious, little seeds sprouting already being grown by God, and that verse I began this year with comes again to mind:

“Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6)

Mercy Seat

“Jesus answered, ‘How can the guests of the bridegroom mourn while he is with them? The time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them; then they will fast.” (Matthew 9:15)

I had two tablespoons of plain oatmeal for breakfast Sunday morning and felt like I’d consumed a house. Or an entire Thanksgiving spread—a cornucopia, if I may. Or something else unapologetically large. He is risen!

Thus ended Holy Week and the curious seven days of my fast: with much genuine joy and celebration—my Lord has risen! Mourning was over! I am redeemed! But curious it was. Having never before fasted, I must have gone in with some kind of preconception about the impending holiness which would alight on me as soon as I undertook the experiment—because a few instances of meekly returning snacks to the cupboard and a few days of a rumbling tummy had me wondering what it was I really was doing and why.

“When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross." (Colossians 2:13-14)

Fortunately, what with so much free time on my hands (I also became super aware of how much I unconsciously snack and what a luxury that is), I had plenty of opportunity to chat with God about it. If I was free from the Law and all that distasteful equipage of rules and regulations associated with religion, free from what Paul calls the “written code”, why was I depriving myself of even plain cooked rice? My salvation is not and was never based on works—the last forty days of Lent had been a reflection on my depravity and need for God’s grace. 

“Remember, O Lord, your great mercy and love, for they are from of old. Remember not the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways; according to your love remember me, for you are good, O Lord… For the sake of your name, O Lord, forgive my iniquity, though it is great.” (Psalm 25:6-7, 11)

It took the end of the week and the joy of Easter for me to begin to appreciate what God had been showing me. It started with me realizing I had made a commitment to Him and then kept it. I had been tempted—the words Jesus quoted from Deuteronomy 8:3 during His own temptation (Luke 4) spring to mind: “man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord”—but had not sinned. Yet God does not love me more for it.

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” (James 1:27)

Having always been a performer accustomed to the normal (that is, worldly) order of things—reward flowing from success and punishment flowing from failure—God had seen a need to subvert my ingrained code of expectation and entitlement. What He showed me was the deep-seated, visceral joy of doing something for Him merely because I love Him and want to honor and bless Him. And God is delighted by every little way I choose Him, delighted that “[I] did what [I] could” (Mark 14:8)—that despite my smallness compared to His glory, I could offer up this: something outrageously counter-cultural and disciplined for His Name’s sake.

It isn’t that He explicitly demands worship from me; it’s that worshipping God simply because He is worthy, the only One who is worthy, is a restoration of the natural order of things. It’s His Kingdom coming amidst the broken relationships created by the Fall and coming to rest in my heart.

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.” (Philippians 4:4-5)

Focal Point

"For who is God besides the Lord?" (Psalm 18:31)

Created via Wordle

Happy to see the blog is on target after all. Not as happy to have discovered a new addiction... I wonder if I'll subconsciously stress certain words in the future. I also wonder how much more time I'll waste tonight, and what God was thinking when He created giraffes. Or, you know, men. PLATYPUS! Oh, the possibilities.

Controlled Burnout

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Always working, never resting—mile after mile after unending mile. Churning striving blind circles no progress back to square one EMPTY. Shins bones and ankle bones splinter delicately and vibrate their jagged way wider with every stressful step and gasping breath. All mental and emotional faculty poured out, again and again, into one class—one project—one person—over and over only to gaze on—glare at—the result with unholy dissatisfaction. And I would shy away from locking eyes with the utter, desolate depth of my disappointment.

“Night and day, whether [the sower] sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how.” (Mark 4:27)

So much effort wasted and no understanding gained; once again, I had failed to find my Savior even when I did win another person’s approval—a spiraling cycle I reworked downward and repeated by devoting my life to pursuing completeness by achievement and wholeness by intimacy. I never ended up with what I so desperately sought. Repeat. Never reaping good fruit of  my ever-anxious labor. Repeat.

“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The man who plants and the man who waters have one purpose, and each will be rewarded according to his own labor.” (1 Corinthians 3:7-8)

My mid-week crisis after the second full day of teaching was due in part to physical exhaustion, lack of sleep, lack of quiet times and emotional overload—and in part, a silent tantrum at God. My will—connecting with the children—was directly interfering with His purpose for me that week—to contribute to His overall plan by sparing the kids from internally combusting, which mandated getting their little bodies to run as much as possible and, thus, my teaching Phys. Ed.

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9)

Source: World Harvest Mission

I was again confronted by a God of an infinitely stronger will and was again rebelling. I was again grasping for control of outcomes and asserting my puny demands as I have all my life, only to reap the reward of a familiar turmoil seething in my soul—something neither He nor I wanted. I was again faced by that awful realization—both humbling and, upon acceptance, soothing—that I am sinful and limited, that I am not God, but that He is good, sovereign and in control. I was again made to surrender to Him, to submit to the path He had laid out.

“Now the body is not made up of one part but of many… But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be... The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you!’ On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” (1 Corinthians 12:14, 18, 21-22, emphasis added)

I didn’t want to play a supporting role—which was news to me, since I’ve never loved the limelight. With the wisdom of hindsight and what the Spirit has directly imparted to me, however, I’ve since realized that I’m quite happy with a supporting role, that I probably would have been even more totally overwhelmed seeking connections than I already was, that I merely wanted control, and that God knows me much better than I know myself. What a silly little creature I am.

“I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him.” (Ecclesiastes 3:14)



True Grit

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” (1 Corinthians 9:24)

(I tend to allude to cultural phenomena—especially films—that I have never experienced firsthand. The title of this post is no different...)

Easy breaths, blink back sweat, kick out legs—left, right, left—in smooth, loping strides. Mile after straightforward mile, until ten or twelve have trotted underfoot and I’ve had my day in the park.

I recently was forced to undertake the uncomfortable task of describing my special gifts for an application. Coordination and what boils down to sheer endurance are what I’ve been given, along with some proficiency in math and writing. But there certain gifts—like speaking other languages and playing worship music, as the question so helpfully suggested—that are more obviously contributable to furthering God’s kingdom. Since my skills in piano and Spanish are something less than fluent, my struggle has been about what to do with the gifts I do have. What prize was I after? If I do not literally run a race toward Jesus, for what purpose was I beating my body (c.f. 1 Corinthians 9:27)? The question of worth once again raised its ugly head.

Then I found out I would be co-teaching Phys. Ed. for the spring break church camp in Miami.

 

 “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” (Hebrews 12:1)

And I found out about the spiritual endurance patience required and that playing with 84 kidlings for six hours a day entailed all the physical grit I could muster, and indeed, sometimes more than I could. Furthermore, “Duck-Duck-Goose” became for me almost absurdly emotional when kindergarteners Kaila and Lisa unexpectedly and perfectly reenacted a game of “Poul-Poul-Pijon” from Haiti two months prior by claiming my lap for as much of the game as I was duck/chicken and not goose/pigeon.

 

As one of my colleagues so wisely concluded, it is entirely possible the whole point and purpose of us having the penchant for athleticism was fulfilled that week in Little Haiti. Oddly satisfied with that explanation after a week of cursing my gift and feeling my usefulness under attack, I realized I’d gotten another glimpse of “fixing my eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:2) by leaving opportunities to use the gifts He gave me up to Him. For that moment, my prize was peace.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” (2 Timothy 4:7)

Miss K, Mr. G, Sasha, Patricia, Samantha, and Geraldine

Back to Mind

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!” (Isaiah 49:15)

Stripping off winter coats and sweaters at the airport, stepping into warm air, an early first night and orientation—all brought back to mind touching down in Port-au-Prince two months ago and the frenzy of a new environment. Soft sand over skin and shells under fingers, a gently wild breeze tangling my hair with salt and beads of seawater—tokens of a relaxing last day repeated at a different beach. Bright dark eyes in small dark faces, eager squirming bodies—even disguised in complete sets of clothes, these children brought my mind irresistibly back to Chambrun.

I bawled when I saw them.

That was my first day in Little Haiti, Miami and my second cry of the night. And I’m now out of things to write. It’s as though the fact that I experienced Haiti almost out-of-body, observing myself, made that trip easy to process. But I wasn’t prepared to experience—finally fully present—the emotional charge of last week, or even the beautiful degree to which I have witnessed my own heart soften. I am less sure how to relate it, but hopefully will be able to with more prayer.

May or may not be related, but Psalm 118 has been on my heart lately:

“I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done.” (Psalm 118:17)

Back to Life

“‘Will they restore their wall? Will they finish in a day? Can they bring the stones back to life from those heaps of rubble—burned as they are?’” (Nehemiah 4:2)

These words were sneered at the returning Israelites attempting to rebuild Jerusalem’s wall, left in disgraceful ragged shattered shreds since the exile. These words were the words of enemies—threats—meant to tear down and discourage, meant to corrupt identity and hope. But, despite interference and persecution by man, the Lord rebuilt the wall through Nehemiah in a mere 52 days.

These words were also God’s special call to me in Haiti. He was reminding me that despite my enemies’ constant attacks, despite the brokenness of my burnt and shredded heart, despite the heaps of rubble it sat in, He intended to restore it back to life, and would in His timing.

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)

This Monday was the fifty-second day since Haiti. Today, I leave for Miami to begin another mission trip, the second chapter of God’s redemptive work in me this year. The hope contained in that first post, “Freedom Trail”, has not been disappointed (c.f. Romans 5:5).

“These are the words of him who is holy and true, who holds the key of David. What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open.” (Revelation 3:7)

“Then you will know that I am the Lord; those who hope in me will not be disappointed.” (Isaiah 49:23)

I look forward with quiet anticipation to the next 52 days.

Present Peace

“For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.” (1 Corinthians 14:33)

A scrawny rooster crowed, waking half the barracks but not me; my eyes cracked open of their own order to welcome the pre-dawn gray. Like an ant army, we dressed in silence and one by one marched the no-man’s land between bed and bath, wash-clothes in hand. We returned, one by one, fresh-faced, squinting back the sun as it softly broke the eastern mountain crests, admiring the already warm morning, contemplating the day.

Breakfast: scoop of oatmeal, spoonful of sugar, splash of milk, dash of cinnamon, packet of almonds, did-everyone-take-their-malaria-pills? Devotions: worshipping from a still, steady heart and uncluttered head, giving God the day, minute by minute. Received the day’s orders.

“Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)

The rhythmic peace of reliable routine and no expectations was a balm for my weary, harried heart. Organize donations: one by one, wiggle a box from the top of the heavy pile, slice the tape, check the contents—another jersey!—move, sort, move, one by one. Organize the warehouse: receive a box, pass on a box, arms tired, drink some water, check the contents—another mouse got in—one by one, thirty-nine left, three, two, one… Organize the office: move out boxes, sort, sweep, sand, paint, stroke by stroke… Stop for lunch: beans and rice and soup and what-flavor-is-the-punch? Refill water bottles: soon to be warm again but now perspiring icy coolness. Continue on. Stop for the day. No urgency nor guilt nor pressure about unfinished work. No real deadlines. We’re on Haitian time.
 

"'Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.'" (John 14:27) 

The glory of clear skies continued with committed regularity. Day by day, I was allowed to release my thoughts to a warm and gentle breeze, to "cast my anxiety on Him" (1 Peter 5:7)—allowed to indulge my endless fascination with watching cloud formations change the color of the sky. These clouds did not block out the sun, but worked in ways that did nothing but enhance a week of crystal sunrises and ruby sunsets. I identified with the sun as it landed gently to the west, tired from its eternal work as we were. Moon and stars peeked out shyly by twilight, diamond eyes and faces shining boldly by evening, battling against the darkness creeping over the landscape.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.” (Psalm 139:11-12)

Swarms of mosquitoes and moths and gnats gathered around every light on campus at night, even in the dining hall. But even avoiding those tables, by dinner already littered with tiny corpses scorched by the lamp above, was an endearing custom. Refreshment from cool showers was short-lived; I was already nodding off into food and Bananagrams, blinking back sleep during discussion time and Bible study. Even during worship on the roof of the school under the cheerfully twinkling stars, constellations comfortingly familiar, my body melted into the quiet stillness around me, feeling closely the Spirit’s presence.

 “Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, for you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” (1 Corinthians 15:58)

Night by night, full of the satisfaction from the day’s work and feeling exhausted, I went to bed and slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

The Lasting Kind

“[Jesus] replied, ‘My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.’”
(Luke 8:21)

Hi team,

This post is nothing less than a big thank you to each and every one of you, and is already long-overdue. I know that all of us were pretty thrilled to stay in the grace-and-truth quadrant toward each other (if not always for ourselves), so I don’t have much to add to that. What I frequently remember is that, after confessing our first night how numb and not present I was and feeling like I couldn’t pour back into anyone, so many of you were so kind in taking the time to draw me out over our trip. I am pretty embarrassed to share some of these things, but as per my last email to you, I feel my embarrassment was worth bringing glory to God through sharing the need for prayer and, as a result, through your prayers’ answer.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)

Dear sisters, I especially want to thank you for getting deeper—some of you very deep—into my wounds and helping me clean them out and make sense of them. I appreciate your gentle empathy and kind compassion and sound advice. Thank you for "spurring me on toward love and good deeds", for "encouraging me" and "not giving up" (Hebrews 10:24-25).

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)

Dear brothers, I really appreciate you being good brothers, and showing that you men can comfort and lend an ear to us women without it being A Thing. I might be speaking only for myself, but I often wonder how women supposed are to practice good relationships with men (and vice versa) when our Christian communities are so segregated by gender? In any case, I do appreciate the practice.

Separately, there is one particular instance of thanks owed for which I know I am speaking for quite a few of the ladies, that we noticed the first few days moving donations in the sea container:

Once the consolidated boxes got too heavy to lift, you really stepped it up and helped out. It may seem small to you, but the women were really grateful that you did the part of the work you could do—lifting—without complaint; and moreover, let us do the part of the work we could do—directing—without questioning us or trying to take over. You could easily have pushed us all into the performance quadrant, but instead it was a really beautiful example of the functioning Body, with you using the strengths God created you—as men—to have. We really appreciated it and want to say thank you!

Finally (welcome to my slightly disjointed conclusion), I’m very happy for the awesome experience of community we made as a team and am especially glad we have kept in touch and can visit each other. It could have been one of those things where you meet once, add each other on Facebook, and then never talk again—but I don’t think this was. I’m so grateful for our special experience together and that our new friendships are turning out so far to be the lasting kind. And I look forward to more adventures with you!

"As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." (Proverbs 27:17)

In His love,

Kelsey

Good Gifts

“It does not, therefore, depend on man’s desire or effort, but on God’s mercy.” (Romans 9:16)

Some people have found me hard to believe when I say there was nothing really distressing or even particularly uncomfortable about my time in Haiti. On the contrary, it was so full of pleasant surprises and comfort and happiness that I want to use this space to honor God with praises for a trip that was more like a homecoming for my soul than anything else. Besides, after the heaviness of the last post and this past weekend, I definitely feel the need to reflect on His unaccountable goodness in the form of describing the many ways He showed me His love and careful attention on the broken island in the Caribbean.

After a long and complicated journey from Boston involving a cab, an overnight bus, a subway ride, the AirTrain at JFK, and a Boeing 767, another bout of sitting-and-waiting—this time, outside the airport in Port-au-Prince—was happily resigned to as the preferred activity over trudging-with-luggage. And happy—not delirious from lack of sleep—it really was, for stretching over me in all directions was the perfectly unblemished blue of cloudless sky, and beaming down on me were 85 degrees of brightly and continuously streaming sunlight. It was not the passionless, washed-out blue of winter, nor the iron gray of storm, nor the lifeless undefined white that cloaks New York from December till March. It was certainly not the gloom of my apartment, which strangles even the strongest rays that dare battle their way in. It was radiance itself for the air to touch and warm my skin.

 

“‘Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.’” (Matthew 6:8)

The next two gifts were such a combination of specificity and improbability that it is impossible but that the hand of God was at work. Upon entering the dining hall, I was immediately greeted by the sight of a piano, complete with sheet music that ranged from Christmas carols easy enough for me to sight-read to Beethoven’s Für Elise, which I have been painstakingly working through for months. I can’t adequately express how entirely tinkering at the piano puts me at ease, except to try to explain that it’s qualitatively equivalent to enjoying a really good quiet time with the Lord. I spent a great deal of time there.

The other gift, which by itself was totally unlikely, were the no-bake cookies that were served with dinner that first night, the likes of whose glorious oat-and-chocolate-and-peanut-buttery-goodness I had never before beheld outside my own kitchen. That mostly everyone on my team happened to know what they were did not detract at all from the fact that Haiti had no-bakes in common with home, of all things. And food-related blessings didn’t stop there. Along with having to eat oatmeal, rice and beans, and spaghetti and chicken all week—foods that top the list of things I don’t get sick of—I realized as the trip progressed that God was restoring my appetite, which, after my perpetual illness last semester and the resulting fifteen-pound weight loss, was a miracle.

I saw a no-bake cookie.

“You are familiar with all my ways.” (Psalm 139:3)

There were many, many other details I could point to… the comfort of roaming barnyard animals and dusty heat, reminiscent of home… the particular satisfaction of cold showers and a clean face after getting filthy dirty… and many other instances I have yet to relay that soothed my heart that week—but I could hardly close on the goodness of God without mentioning the day on the coast.  

Having been raised camping and gotten through elementary school on books like Island of the Blue Dolphins, My Side of the Mountain, and Little House In the Big Woods, and playing games like Oregon Trail (I’m dating myself), I have in me an unswerving romanticism for certain time periods and environments in which I would realistically find my present-day self very uncomfortable. In particular, the idea of pre-industrial America and the English Middle Ages woo my fancy—as well as surviving on a deserted island, à la Robinson Crusoe. So washing that mango while standing in the waves, stripping it with a oversized knife, and then drowning my face and hands in its delightfully squishy orange pulp (and later, gnawing on a foot-length of sugarcane) pretty much fed the primitive instinct of my soul to be wild and fierce and somewhat unladylike, which I usually fulfill with sports and cooking-with-my-hands. This was great fun, but at the ocean, God met another, deeper soul-need…

I love water. I love the cool soothing swirling flow around my ankles, the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain, the perfect reflection of a puddle, the tenderness of a dew drop clinging tightly to the tip of a new leaf or sparkling in a spider web. I love the pulsating ebb-and-flow of the ocean, the weight of a giant heartbeat pressing around me, the salty sea-smells, the breathy crash and spray of a hello to the shelly sand. I could watch the variable tripping and giggling of a creek unceasingly.

Much like flying in an airplane, standing in the ocean is, for me, always a time to meet with God. In the ocean, listening to that strong and steady heartbeat, I experience His might and beauty and tenderness all at once. I can look out onto those clear blue ripples and imagine them rising up into wild waves, a black, crushing storm which my Lord calms with a raised hand, saying, “Quiet! Be still,” as He so often says to me (Mark 4:39). I feel the countless tiny grains of sand brushing between my toes and remember His thoughts of me are more numerous than the sum of them (Psalm 139:17-18), that I cannot find a place where He is not present, even if I “make my bed in the depths” or “settle on the far side of the sea” (Psalm 139:7-9). Lord, I will “be still, and know that you are God” (Psalm 46:10).

“‘If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!’” (Matthew 7:11)