That Girl

Sometimes I miss certain versions of myself. Just when I get comfortable with who I am and what I am doing, a change forces its way into my life. Just when I fling back my arms, breathe in deeply, tip my toes up and lean back, something comes and places the tip of its crooked pointer-finger upon the small of my back...steps forward, and purposefully eases me back into my standing position. "Not so fast, my pretty, we're not done here." I suppose this is God, but I have just described him as the wicked witch of the west. So, I don't know what to do with that.

What I mean is this: Change is good and I actually like it. This is why I enjoy teaching -every day is different and brings new challenges. Also, we get candy in our mail boxes and school t-shirts.

But.

Sometimes I really like the person I am and the spot I am in and when I leave that I place, I end up not being too fond of the girl and situation that replaces it.

 I admit that I am success-driven. If I feel like I will be successful then I run for it with ridiculous exuberance. If I feel inadequate then I shy away, make circles with my big toe, and put off the let-down of failure until the last moment possible. I can't escape change, though. It comes, whether I feel prepared for it or not. Sometimes it ends up being a change that I can welcome with pomp and circumstance. Other times it ends up being change that causes makes me to feel inadequate.

I have changed. Some for the better, some for the worst, but I have changed. And sometimes I miss who I was before.

I miss the version of myself that was happy with little. I  miss the version of myself that was overjoyed with a new soccer ball from Wal-Mart. I  miss the version of myself that would spend quiet time alone with God and not have to force myself there. I miss the version of myself that was selfless and motivated to help others out of unencumbered love. I miss the version of myself that would scale up the old Oak tree with a new book and sit and read until the ants made their debut in the edge of my sneakers. I miss the version of myself that didn't know the demands of a daily job or monthly bills or emotional roller coaster of the dating world. I miss the version of myself that wore pigtails because her favorite character in a book did. I miss the version of myself that divided her days into "school" and "after school" instead of "before work," "work," "during work," and "after work." I miss the version of myself that had time to commit to various activities. I miss the version of myself from when my grandmother died. I liked that emotional, tender-hearted, fearless girl.

I like a good, solid, natural change. But sometimes I inflict negative change upon myself, the kind that comes when I put off spending time in God's word. The kind that comes when I forget to go out of my way to serve others (instead of it being "on the way"). The kind that comes when I focus too much on myself and not Jesus. Sometimes the change is my fault and I ignore the repercussions until they're staring me in the face. And then I just have to deal and hope that some small ounce of that little girl and Jesus' goodness can bring me back.

So, change.

I have changed and I will continue to change. We like to hold on to a little bit of the previous versions of ourselves. We try to hold on only to the good bits. We fight against holding on to the bad bits. That pigtail girl is still in me. That fearless girl bubbles up every day that I have to say "no" to a teenager who is on the verge of a meltdown. That tree-climber, that high-flyer, that dreamer-girl is still in me. She hasn't left, only grown up. And so I will hold on - to the good bits - to the dreamer-girl and spunky adolescent of me.

So today I will see my world with new eyes, because Jonas did. Today I will step away from technology and errands and walk a pond with book in hand. Today I will get drinks with friends and give cheers to life and health and potential and pay checks. Today I will buy a new soccer ball and enjoy the thrill of one, cheap, unnecessary symbol of childish joy. Today I will buy another piece of furniture to restore because I like working with my hands. Today I will roller blade and paint my nails blue and go to bed at 9.

Today I will discover me because tomorrow I may change. Today I will relish the me that I wasn't yesterday and tomorrow I will sigh for the one I was today.

Oh, God

Oh, God.

Sometimes that's the only thing I can utter when God especially blesses me while I am afraid and don't have it all together.

Sometimes God makes me cry. And I think that is OK.


When a blushing 9th grader comes to me with every "A" she earns in school - Oh, God.

When, through tears, a mother thanks me for telling her positive things about her child - Oh, God.

When I talk honestly with a student about a path she is on and we both start to cry - Oh, God.

When I read free-write journals of teenagers who are wise beyond their years - Oh, God.

When my vision is cleared and I see my students as needy people instead of numbers - Oh, God.

When the prayer I have been repeating is already interwoven into my heart that I just stop short because he knows - Oh, God.

When I feel lackluster and hopeless yet God answers my prayer - Oh, God.

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I am an incredibly messed up person who is adored by the mighty Lord...and I don't think I'll ever fully understand why.

And sometimes, the only thing I can muster up is an Oh, God and tear-filled eyes as I stare down the radical goodness he gives...

and I cry, because he loves me and because it is the only thing my body knows to do when faced with the astounding blessing of being his treasure.

Shocker.

I have spent approximately 0 seconds reflecting on what I am typing. Typically, I let my thoughts sit until a moment of inspiration hits, then I write.

I am opposite today - I write, then I think. And I will probably want to delete this post. But, I won't, because it's raw and I like that and I like livin' life on the edge.

Onward.

This blog seems too heavy lately. Here's some real life. There are several things that I am bad at.


Examples.
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Making my bed: My grandmother always made her bed. When I stayed with them, it was an unspoken expectation that making beds and brushing teeth go hand-in-hand. My mother makes her bed. My sister makes her bed. I have doubts about my brother, but let's be honest and say that he has better things to do, like admire his beard in the bathroom mirror and flex. I made my bed in college mostly due to the fact that I had so many visitors in my room (take that as you will). Now? Nope. When I leave home by 7:00 every morning, there isn't a strong enough cup of coffee to will me to want to spend an extra five minutes pulling, tucking, and smoothing anything that I won't be wearing out the door.
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Trimming my cuticles: I like short nails. I always have. Long nails get in the way and generally inflict pain on those you intentionally/accidentally touch. I mess with papers all day every day, so short nails are a must. But cuticles, oh cuticles. I hate those darn things. My twice-a-year manicure is a funny experience...

She peers at me through her shiny black bangs and says "oh...cuticle bad, yes?"
Her nose scrunches and I take the hint.
"...yeah, hehe. Um, I never cut my cuticles? I just...I'm a teacher...and...?"
I realize I am answering with questions...the upward climb of my voice searching for approval.
She shakes her head. "OK. Soak."

And then I soak. Forever. Which is why I never have nice cuticles.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

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Waking up to the first alarm: I am obsessive when it comes to setting alarms. I don't have an iPhone, but I am awed by the infinite number of alarms I could set should I get one. Some people drool over the the gps system, the ring-tones, the apps that it has. Me? I'm un-done by its alarm settings. My drive to work is thirty minutes. If I leave any later than my set time, I get road rage and spill my smoothie or any other liquid (OK, coffee) I may be drinking. To prevent this, I set, no lie, ten alarms. You want to know how quickly I can turn them off? Seconds. Milliseconds. But, gosh, that extra sleep feels like hours. I am not good at waking up with one or two alarms. There is a science to my alarms. Intervals must not be consistent between alarms. If they are too consistent, my fingers reflex to press "end" when it feels like the alarm is about to sound. They have to be perfectly inconsistent. I have to trick myself. 2 minutes, alarm. 3 minutes, alarm. 5 minutes, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm.

When the alarms start sounding like a machine gun, I know to stop the madness and get my tail out of bed.
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Not wanting a cat: I'm going to uncover the guise I so cleverly wear and admit that I am a cat lady at heart (was I really kidding anyone?). I like cats because they're sarcastic. Oh, you're reading a book? I suddenly feel like laying on your head. You're putting stuff in that box? Nope. It's my bed now. I had a cat from seven years old to eighteen. She wasn't very "cattish" though, and more like a snugglywugglysmooshyfacesugarmuffin.

OK. I'm done.



Nope. No, I'm not. Someone get me a kitten.
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Controlling my hair: This needs no introduction or explanation. I don't know how it got here or what it wants, but I have learned that questioning its authority just makes it angrier... curlier. I give up. My hair is the time machine to the 80's.
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Caring about which way the toilet paper roll feeds from: Over? Under? How about PRESENT.

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Knowing when to not crack a joke: Awkward encounters I have caused:

Me and a cashier at Publix.
Me and some beef-cake at the gym who didn't see the line of people trying to pass him as he admired himself in the mirror.
Me and strangers (Me: So, what's your story?......Him: Um, what's your name?)
Me and a date (Me: You wanna tell me about that theft in 1998? Him:__________ Waiter: drops plates, laughing)
Me and...


everyone.
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Being up-to-date with boy-bands:

I choose NPR over Onedirection (onedirection? OneDirection?). Can't help it.

baby I was born this way (oops.)

My father listened to NPR as we grew up and it was the car entertainment of choice right after Adventures in Odyssey.

"Car Talk" introduced to me the ideas of male chauvinism, the fact that women can't drive, and what fan belts are really for. Pure gold, apparently.

I joke.



But really, I don't. You should listen to NPR. It really is magic.

An Abundant Life

I always feel sappy when I compose an entry like this one. I shudder at the overuse of emotion, yet entries like these aren't made up of overused emotion, rather they are made up of a human recognition that I am not alone, there is a God who loves me, and I am meager in my devotion to Him.

I had a student complete a presentation on the book Pilgrim's Progress a couple of days ago. The analogy was not lost on him, and God used his simple words to remind me that this journey is not an easy one. There will be mire, there will be suffering, there will be confusion, and there will be unrest. But, also, there will be Him. And I am reminded of that.

And then I forget.

I wish I could say that I have reached the maturity level in my Christian life where I no longer doubt God's work and His faithfulness. I can't say that I have. Recently, I have let my guard down because of doubt and Satan has taken aim and shot at my faith. I may be wounded, but I am not overcome.

"For I am convinced that neither depth nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

Too often, I forget that the Christian life is a journey, lived out in a world that both screams the glory of God, and refuses to believe in His existence. I forget that to stay on the right path, I must follow my Guide. Analogies aside, the truth is, is that what can I expect when I forget? I can expect hardship, anxiety, despair. What can I expect when I remember and follow? I can expect hardship, turmoil, joy, love, forgiveness, freedom, and contentment. He doesn't promise an easy life, but He does promise an abundant one.

To live an abundant life. That is what I want.

A beautiful prayer written by a lady that I don't know, yet speaks of my life exactly.

"Lord, I am Yours. Whatever the cost may be, may Your will be done in my life. I realize I'm not here on earth to do my own thing, or to seek my own fulfillment or my own glory. I'm not here to indulge my desires, to increase my possessions, to impress people, to be popular, to prove I'm somebody important, or to promote myself. I'm not here ever to be relevant or successful by human standards. I'm here to please You.

I offer myself to You, for You are worth. All that I am or hope to be, I owe to You. I'm Yours by creation, and every day I receive from You life and breath and all things. And I'm Yours because You bought me, and the price You paid was the precious blood of Christ. You alone, the Triune God, are worthy to be my Lord and Master. I yield to You, my gracious and glorious heavenly Father; to the Lord Jesus who loved me and gave Himself for me; to the Holy Spirit and His gracious influence and empowering.

All that I am and all that I have I give to You. I give You any rebellion in me, which resists doing Your will. I give You my pride and self-dependence, which tell me I can do Your will in my own power if I try hard enough. I give You my fears, which tell me I'll never be able to do Your will in some areas of my life. I consent to let You energize me...to create within me, moment by moment, both the desire and the power to do Your will.

I give You my body and each of its members...my entire inner being: my mind, my emotional life, my will...my loved ones...my marriage or my hopes for marriage...my abilities and gifts...my strengths and weaknesses...my health...my status (high or low)...my possessions...my past, my present, and my future...when and how I'll go Home.

I'm here to love You, to obey You, to glorify You. O my Beloved, may I be a joy to You!"

And so, this is how it goes. He saves, He loves, He brings, He gives, He waits, He shelters, He calms. We love, we forget, we walk away, we remember, we love, we worry, we remember, we love...and it goes on and on. I will never be as faithful as He is. I will never love Him as much as He deserves. But, the beauty of this God that I serve, is that He doesn't expect me to perform in any particular way. He sent His son so that I wouldn't have to. And so, He just wants me. Every worry, fear, imperfection, and faithlessness that I bring to the table. And that's all He wants. He does all the work. All I have to do is follow.

To live an abundant life. To see the beauty in the mess. To live under grace instead of stress. To live how I was created to live.

"We [write/_____] to know we are not alone."

If you are passionate about a subject, you will understand what I am about to say.

There is longing in me that craves the challenge of perfecting my art alongside my peers, for working towards the common goal of giving something our best, having it reviewed by others, and then breaking it down to rebuild again. It may be experimental science for you, it could be the challenge of creating a new piece of technology, it may be wood-working, sewing, or cooking.

For me, it is writing.

I am not a poet, I am not an author. I can't be put in those categories. I am not that good.

But I like to try and I like to get better and that is my point. Writing is my first love because it was the first thing that gave me a feeling of potential.

When I was a Junior in college, I "found" myself as a writer. People use this phrase in reference to their inability to understand themselves previously. I mean it as the awakened knowledge of what I lacked, what I wanted, and how I could get there. I knew writing was in me the way athletes respond to the question of "how do you do it?"

How do I not?

I wasn't a typical college girl. A wild night to me was spent writing, peer editing, coffee-drinking, and infusing wit into bored papers. I am exaggerating, of course. But, this persona is funnier than the simple truth that I went to a Christian University and so of course I spent my evening hours working on homework while watching Signs with friends. I preferred to go to bed early and wake up early-ish. I couldn't do all-nighters. So, I would sleep early and wake early. This was the only way I could crank out an essay. And, if you're a writer, don't believe the lie that waiting until the last minute is detrimental. If you love to write, then moments of inspiration are more important than timing. Sometimes those don't come until the morning of. If you wake at 4:00 am with an idea, then go. write. and keep going until it's either gone, dumb, or finished.

I had an English class Junior year that hung me out to dry in terms of making me feel inferior as a writer. Oh, there was talent in that class. I think the reason I learned so much is because she broke down our egotistical walls, showed us we sucked at writing, then showed us examples of those who didn't. She didn't really do a whole lot of "teaching," but more collaboration, modeling, and discussion. "You're not concise enough. You don't flesh out your ideas. You write in detail which is good, but what about the other information?" It was a bee I couldn't swat and so I was left with a sting on my ego and a mission to get it write.

And it was hard. And it was annoying that I cared so much. And it was embarrassing when I failed. But, it was beautiful because it was with a few strangers and allofthesudden they knew who I was and what I lacked, and I couldn't hide a single thing. We were all known for something. She was awesome at details. He was a beast at research. She had perfect clinchers. He had a talent for humor. That class was my little hide-away where I could nerd-it-up with my fellow writers and pretend we really were on to something life-changing.

And then it was over. And I became a Senior and I became an adult and I got a job and now here I am, trying to prevail over my hectic schedule by keeping a blog that I update only semi-regularly. And I have no writers to bounce my work off of and I have no teacher critiquing and telling me I stink. And I miss it.

I still try, But, there is a kind of fear that takes over a person when they approach their art. They know what they want to do. They know the process they should take. But, sometimes the product is too beautiful that they get scared and intimidated, and it's easier to step away for a while than to try and fail.

But then.

There is this passion that comes back and a stubbornness that controls and makes this person sit down and just do it and try and try until it comes out wrong, and then break it down and try again. The whole process is the point. The climax isn't the finished product. The climax is when it clicks and you keep going, knowing you've done a good thing, but not a perfect thing. The climax is knowing there is farther to go but what you've got is pretty darn good.

And you have to protect this sort of thing in you. Because it's you, really you, and sometimes it's the only thing that's yours.

But then you let it seep out, line by line, and hope, hope, that someone half-way gets it.

And Sometimes...

You lie awake at night and think "is this how it goes?" So you lie in bed (and lay your head down) and wish you could lay your thoughts aside while wondering if you're believing in a lie.

You get stuck writing and so you start playing with words "that are easily confused" (Chicken Little lies down to lay eggs).

Days go by quickly and weeks go slowly by and you wonder if you're doing it right.

You think that maybe you're the exception and everyoneelsehasgotittogetherexceptforyou.

You get distracted because the word "titto" screams at you from the words you just strung together and you hope that that doesn't mean that you're weird.

You decide that it doesn't. You just pay attention to strange things (all those T's...)

You think "tomorrow will be better. I will..." and you create this shamtastic list and get really excited.

Tomorrow comes and you don't know why you had such high expectations of yourself.

People tell you "you're doing a great job" but you feel empty from all the rush and wonder why you started.

You get home and you take off your shoes and you let down your hair and you look in the mirror. And you see what you want and not what you ought and you wonder if maybe God has invested too much in the person staring back.

You forget.

You remember what lies behind but forget what is promised. That He is there and He is willing and He cares. That He goes before and He paves the way and He leads and He loves and He knows.

You forget that there is beauty in the mess and so maybe you can rest in the hope that He is working.

You wish you could fall asleep with a sigh because what else can you do when you realize you're loved better than you will ever know.

You just can't live out the rosy ending you envision and so you lie awake at night and succumb to the normalcy of a tough night's sleep while you sort through the lies you are believing.

 

Holiday Drug

Peppermint mochas make me dream of an idyllic life laced with the kind of picturesque moments that you see in Publix commercials. Solid wood cutting boards. Fuzzy slippers that are in pristine condition. Fuzzy round puppies with little wet noses. Husbands with rough hands who wear flannel and chop wood for the fire. 

Sometimes I forget that my life is idyllic. Its ideal because it's real and it is laced with God's goodness in every tiny crevice. It's different, because it lacks acoustic guitar in the background and my slippers are a dingy grey. I don't have a husband that chops wood and my fuzzy round puppy is nonexistent. But it's still good.

This post is stereotypical and it makes my teeth grate. I hate stereotypes. Predictability. Ask my family. I tried my best to convince them to pick a more "slender" Christmas tree simply because I could see its potential. It was beautiful and quaint and lovely...in my mind. I was the equivalent of Phoebe Bouffay, for those of you who have seen the Christmas tree episode. Go watch it now.

However, all irritation with myself aside, I created a thankful list this afternoon whilst drinking a Peppermint mocha at Starbucks. Chalk it up to the "holiday drug" of peppermint mixed with caffeine, but I think it was God-inspired. Today was a great day, all around, of teaching. And, being a first-year teacher, I don't have many of those. Nothing was different, really. Except that my kids are excited about what we are currently reading. "The Crucible" is my new best friend and I plan on spoiling it with lots of Socratic seminars and carefully doggy-eared pages. 

Intermixed with my Americanized notion of an idyllic life is the faith that my life is wonderful because God has created it just for me. That was not an eloquent way of saying that God is good, but He is God and needs no fancy introduction. I often forget that my life is steeped in God's goodness. I take for granted what He has given me and done for me. And I hate it. But, then He gives me days were my eyes shine and my smiles widens and I think "OK, I think God must love me or something."

Or something.

God adores me. And I don't get it, because I do not adore myself. He reminded me today (right after the self-condemnation started) that when He looks at me He doesn't really see me. He sees His Son. Picture this: God is sitting across from you. Your eyes are down, inspecting the dirt on the unswept floor. You feel ugly, gross, and all-around undesirable. You briefly glance up and see God smiling, laughing even, and brushing your tears from your eyes. His eyes are kind, clear, and look at you with such pride. Your eyes catch the mirror directly behind God and you startle at your own reflection. You have a beard. Oh, and, you have the reflection of Jesus.

That is who God sees when He sees me. He sees His son. And that makes me relieved, thankful, and amazed.

And so, inspired by this day, this God, this image in my mind, I wrote a list. And it is girly and silly and beautiful and...real.

1. Attentive students

2. Kids exited about reading "The Crucible"

3. Supportive administration

4. Caring co-workers

5. Peppermint mochas

6. Students coming to my classroom after school...just because

7. Students who talk to me while I listen

8. Having the privilege of listening to teenagers, especially when they won't talk to their parents

9. Messy buns

10. clipped nails

11. Christmas lights

12. The shining white star that is atop Belton's water tower (Water tower? I don't actually know what the structure is. There is no ladder...I've already checked)

13. Rest

14. Downton Abbey

15. Helpful computer repair-men who go out of their way to help me

16. Sunshine on cold days

17. Cardigans

18. Five-year-old cellphones that are still going strong

19. Red lipstick

20. Friends who are more like brothers and sisters

21. Family that never gives up on me

22. Growing families!!!!

23. Mini marshmallows

24. The story of the harlot who washed Jesus' feet in Luke 7

25. guitars and beautiful voices

26. harmony in music

27. this thing called life - with all of its joys and sorrows, leaps and tumbles, decaf and regular coffee. 

Five Loaves and Two Fish

John 6:1-14
"After these things Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. A large crowd followed Him, because they saw the signs which He was performing on those who were sick. Then Jesus went up on the mountain, and there He sat down with His disciples. Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was near. Therefore, Jesus, lifting up His eyes and seeing that a large crowd was coming to Him, said to Philip, 'Where are we to buy bread, so that these may eat?'

This He was saying to test him, for He Himself knew what He was intending to do. Philip answered Him, "Two hundred denarii worth of bread is not sufficient for them, for everyone to receive even just a little."

One of His disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, said to Him, 'There is a lad here who has five barely loaves and two fish, but what are these for so many people?'

Jesus said, 'Have the people sit down.' Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, in number about five thousand.

Jesus then took the loaves, and having given thanks, He distributed to those who were seated; likewise also of the fish as much as the crowd wanted.

When they were filled, He said to His disciples, 'Gather up the leftover fragments so that nothing will be lost.'

So they gathered them up, and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves which were left over by those who had eaten. Therefore, when the people saw the sign which He had performed, they said 'This has truly been done by the Prophet who is to come into the world.'"

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I have heard this story many, many times. And, each time, there is a sense of God's power and control even under seemingly impossible scenarios. God loves to surprise and astound. But, this morning I read it again, and I had a new thought.

In just a few weeks, I will be welcoming students into my classroom for the first time. I will be the teacher, and they will be the student. I will be the one responsible for teaching them, guiding them, and leading them. As a first year teacher, I feel as though I don't have much to offer them in terms of experience and knowledge. As much as student teaching taught me, I am overwhelmed with the truth that there is so much that I don't know. I am overwhelmed with the knowledge that my students will need so much more from me than I can possibly give.

When I read this story this morning, a new thought entered my mind.

I am the five loaves and two fish. My students are the crowd. I am not enough.

How can I possibly feed so many people with such little food? How can I possibly give my students what they need when I am so inadequate? What I have to offer won't fill them; they need more than what I can give.

As humbling as this is, it also brings me peace. Thank God it isn't all up to me. Thank God my God loves to use the poor of His world to bring glory to Him. Thank God He works miracles.

God can meet our needs. Where my abilities and experience lack, God provides in abundance.


I love that the account ends with the disciples filling baskets of leftovers. God is extreme, excessive. When He provides, He does so in abundance - more than I need. I have to trust that God will be excessive in my life this school year. He will multiply my meager abilities as a teacher to fill these kids to the brim, to go beyond just the basics of what they need.

John 10:10
"...I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

Feel encouraged, as I was this morning, that God works above and beyond our capabilities. Do not let the knowledge that you are the five loaves and two fish create in you a heart of trepidation, but let it encourage you, enliven you, that He multiplies our abilities to bring about miracles. Be at peace. Be at rest. You serve a God who is excessive in His provision!

Evolution

I love starting out my writing with a soft prickle of longing. That feeling you get when someone describes an experience in which you feel the soft, round head of a baby, see the slim shadow of a moonlit night that makes you do crazy things, or rise to the stinging kiss the sun smacks on your neck as you lie on the grass.
I can't always twirl my words into elaborate curly-q's of gorgeous verbosity. I can't always summon the inspiration I so desperately require to write. My life isn't brimming with the frothy decadence of leisure. It isn't always easy to turn a frown upside down and see the silver lining.

And sometimes. Sometimes it isn't easy to write from my heart, and so I leave a person silly cliche's and half-hearted attempts to explain myself. Verbal vomit to a writer.

I think that those particular sort of inspirations just won't always come naturally.

The idea of things being in their "natural" state is an interesting one. Whether one bends towards Darwinism or Creationism, or probably any other type of "ism", the theory of evolution would immediately agree with the fact that one's "natural" state is usually their weakest. It is the state in which you are seemingly not evolved, unacquainted with the requirements for survival or growth. Lion cubs must learn to hunt quietly for their prey or they will never eat. Birds must learn to fly in order to escape hunters. Children must learn what is safe and what is not safe (for quite obvious reasons).

Recently, I have been at odds with seeing myself in my natural state vs. seeing myself as God sees me.

I am learning that much of what I am called to do is trust that my God will show me the gospel more and more each day, and, in turn, train me towards obedience -evolve me into a woman who believes and lives out the gospel - every aspect of it.

Father that He is, he guides ever so gently and reminds me that who I am is not just me. Who I am is not what I do or think or feel or say. Who I am is not my reputation. Who I am is not what I can give.

Who I was is covered by Jesus and who I am is nothing short of beautiful to Him.

A friend recently told me "God can't possibly love you any more or less than He does right now. You could sit in a chair never doing anything for Him for the rest of your life and His love for you wouldn't change." If you are a child of God, He loves you WHILE you are sinning. This is not to say that a child of God can go and sin and not reap consequences, but the idea that God loves me even while I am sinning sort of rocks my world.

I am currently doing two completely different Bible studies that are seemingly unrelated, but are actually addressing common themes - the gospel. I challenge you, what are your misconceptions about the gospel and how God views you. One of the questions in the study is "suppose God were sitting across from you. What would His expression be or what would He say?"


I stammered a response that I didn't really feel but knew was right. I knew what the correct response should be "He loves me. He forgives me. He rejoices in me." But what is your immediate answer? Perhaps like me, you have unknowingly screwed up the point of the gospel.
The point is this: God knew we needed to be cleaned from all of our sin. His standards (like the 10 commandments) can never be kept. He considers thinking hateful thoughts about a person murder. He considers lustful ideas or glances adultery. Because of this, He gave us his son who died in our place so that we could live. God's perfect son died in my place so that I could live in His name.

God didn't leave me in my natural state of sin. He took it on Himself and gave me His perfect son to live in.

Picture yourself volunteering at a men's jail. Your duty is to go to each room and refill their water bottles. Feeling compassionate, you open yourself to conversation with the prisoners. You stop by one cell and engage in conversation with a man who is on death row. He is dirty, lice-ridden, and smells. His teeth are yellow and saliva spills from his mouth when he speaks. Turns out, he was a murderer, He has molested women and children. He is a thief, a drug addict, an alcohol addict, a sex addict, and doesn't care about anyone but himself. This conversation with such an evil man brings back memories of your mother's molestation one night when your father wasn't home and it was just you, your siblings, and your mother. You watched as a man spit on each one of you, held a gun to your heads, and then made you and your siblings watch as he raped your mother. Shortly after, your mother died of aids. As you are talking with this man, you realize that he looks familiar and flashbacks to your childhood make you certain that this is the man who killed your mother. Despite the fact that you have lived a life of honesty, integrity, and love towards all people, you have never been able to erase that hurt. Moved with compassion and love, you slowly rise and put your hand on the man's shoulder. Your tender eyes rest on his and you ask him what love means to him. He answers that he has never experienced it or given it. You take off your coat and slide off your shoes. You give him all the money you have. You tell him his wrongdoings have been forgiven and that he should go in peace. He leaves with your name. He now owns your house, your possessions, and your perfect reputation. The next day, when his death sentence is read and the electric chair is waiting for him, you take your place and wait. From outside the jailhouse, the convicted man is living your successful happy life and living in new found love and freedom. You breathe your last in a steel, cold chair, and pay the price for this man's life of hatred.

All believability aside, this is what Jesus has done for me. In fact, the gospel is outrageous. No way would an innocent perfect man give up his life so that a twisted sinner could live a more abundant one.  I am the convicted felon. I am the murderer, the rapist, the thief. I am given new life because Jesus has taken my place because He wanted to show me what love is.

And so, this is the freedom and love I should live my life by. I am no longer in my natural state. This is what it means when I read "Christ's love compels me..." Because of what he has done, I can do.

I also like to end my writing with some sort of clincher that might cause a person to swoon. I slip in a dramatic tid-bit of information that transforms a perspective completely. I might end abruptly, asking a person to reconsider what they have read. I might end in a description or revisit the scene of the opening. I allow my reader to leave changed...if they want to.

But sometimes, it is 12:15 am and those things won't come. Clinchers don't surface. Pithy statements won't reveal. Precision won't come. And I start repeating the same words I have used over and over. A verbal merry-go-round.

I hit spell check. I resist a re-read. I hit shut down. And it ends.

A New Name

Ah, a new post!
Ah, a new name!
Ah...the same woman.

Lady in waiting. I liked it. I still do. But right now, I feel as though God is teaching me that He is my home and my resting place. Wherever He is, I am home. To Webster, a "vagabond" describes a person who doesn't have a home and lives as a wanderer without any direction. At times, I feel like this. But when I decided on the name Vagabond, I really mean it to describe what God is teaching me in respect to my home and my security. If I don't "store up" my treasures here on earth, and if I try my best live each day fully accepting whichever turn of events life brings, then that must mean that my aim isn't to find my security in what my physical world can offer.

I want my joy, my inspiration, my motivation, and my security to derive solely from Him and because of Him. Thus, Vagabond. I don't know what I am doing. I don't know where I will be going. I don't know why He has me here or there, or anywhere. But, I want to be willing to trust, follow, and not worry. I need not fear. He calls me to trust.

Also, Bethany Dillon's "Vagabond" is quite inspirational. It has been one of my long-time favorites.

I know of a man who lives on the other side
On the other side of this mountain
They say he's calling the weary home

I've been told of a man who lives on the other side
On the other side of this mountain
With a heart full of stories of hope

So run like a vagabond, carry the flame
Run for the children and run for the slaves
Hold it up high with a message of faith
Don't ever stop moving on
Just run like a vagabond

His book is a gun that he reads for the people
The words that he speaks have been colored illegal
But the law that he's under is bigger than paper and gowns

He stayed in the streets where the beggars are broken
He's risking is life, a bullseye in the open
But he won't stop to rest until he's reached every town

So run like a vagabond, carry the flame
Run for the children and run for the slaves
Hold it up high with a message of faith
Don't ever stop moving on
Just run like a vagabond