glitter and glory.

There are many types of sorrow in this world. There is the pain of loss, the pain of defeat. The unspeakable sadness that accompanies hopelessness, of feeling that there is no hope within you. The realization that this life is not how it should or could be. Of recognizing the capacity for evil and how little light there actually is at times. It can be a dark place, this earth.

It's easy to be distracted by the shadows, forgetting that there ever was a sun at all.

Sometimes, we think that we can overcome all the bad and cling to the good. Every time we get smacked down, we pop back up, seemingly invincible. We look our horrors in the eyes and boldly say, "Not today". And so we make it through. With courage and great conviction. We feel like superheroes--as though there is no feat in which we will not achieve victory. As if we could save ourselves.

Save everyone around us.

We get tired. Our souls become heavier with each blow, regardless of whether or not we get up again. We carry the scars with us, a constant reminder of the enemy we face. We try not to look at the wounds, we try to remember the healing. But our hearts cannot forget. Worn and weathered by the sorrow we have encountered, hope begins to feel like a far off dream. As though it is something that once existed for us, but is no longer within our grasp. We become smaller, unsure. We forget. We start to believe that there was never a reason to fight to begin with.

We give up.

We close our eyes, go to sleep. Throw the covers over our heads and refuse to see what is happening around us. Shut the blinds. The darkness becomes palpable, thick and heavy and making it hard to breathe. We become anxious, scared that we are once again alone in the world. Afraid that we are too afraid to go back into battle, that the battle has already been lost. We don't know who we are anymore, who we were made to be. We feel empty and dry, incapable of defending ourselves and those around us.

And so we stay in this place for a few days or weeks or months, becoming familiar with what was once a common way of living. We allow ourselves to give up, to experience the sorrow that so faithfully plagues this world, to remember what is was like to be without hope and peace. Without conviction of love and grace. We roll around in the dust and dirt, believing that all along this was all there was to see, all there was to be. And the darkness wins, just like we always thought it would.

But just when we think the dust has settled, a small speck of glitter catches our eye. It's almost unnoticeable, but something in our memory takes note of it. We carefully pick it up, looking at it from every angle to make sure it's not a figment of our imagination. We are doubtful, hesitant to believe that there can be such pure beauty in the midst of vast, unidentifiable mess. But we hold on to it. We keep it close to our heart, hoping that its sparkling majesty will somehow make royalty of us all.

And we start to recall--to dig deep into our being, looking for the crown and cape we once proudly wore as symbols of our faith. We struggle to look for the glory within us, the hope that we once carried with such confidence. And very slowly, we turn our eyes upwards. We look for the sun shining through the shadows, the light that has shown in the darkness because the darkness could not overcome it.

We remember who we serve, the God who came to save, the God who came in hope and truth. Who understands and is familiar with sorrow, the God of grace who bows low to meet with us. And bow low he does, gently lifting our chin to see all that we were so afraid to believe in. All that hope. All the glory.

The hope that shouts above the calamities that threaten to drown out all the joy we have ever known. And so we hold on to that tiny, small, seemingly meaningless piece of glitter and run with all our might towards the light. Past the shadows, past the darkness, shaking the dirt as we go and covering our ears and flailing our arms and running with all our might for truth that has set us free.

Free from all that can go wrong in this world. From sickness, from death. From insecurity and vulnerability and hurt. Because the light within us was made to withstand sorrow, was made to last beyond this life and into another. Was made to cling to when there was nothing left within us. When there was nothing left around us. It is bright, it is unbreakable, it is Christ in us--the hope of glory.

And so we return to our thrones, our crowns shining brightly in the night, a reminder that....

in this world, we will have trouble.

But take heart.

He has overcome the world.

mess and majesty

Life moves fast, whether or not we are standing still to watch it go by. We grow up. We change. We become new people without even realizing it most of the time. We think that we have been stationary, stagnant within our day to day living. And often it feels this way. We are waiting for the moment that our life will begin when really we are already within it, living. We are different than before, but not quite where we thought we would be. So we look around at each other, at ourselves, and think about whom it is we were made to be.

We all have roles in life. Mother, daughter, sister, friend—different roles for different purposes. Our relationships reflect this. To some we are the one with all the answers, and to others the one with all the questions. And this is how it should be. We are all learning from one another, building a community that holds diverse gifts and talents for a purpose. We were not made to be alone, and as much as I don’t like to admit it, we need one another.

I am independent in every sense of the word. I like to be self-sufficient. Life is much easier this way, with no worries and no one to be accountable to. It’s also incredibly isolating and lonely. My days become grey and colorless when I push people away. Less prone to miracle-making. I have found that when I open up my heart and loosen the grip I hold on my time, God fills the space with extraordinary things. When I am not busy trying to find life elsewhere or rushing to get to point B, it gives me time to see what is happening in plan A. To enjoy the process and focus on what is being made instead of what I want to be made already.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe boundaries are important. We need them so that we do not become enmeshed, inappropriately responsible for the emotions of others. When we start to blur the lines between our souls and the souls of those important to us, it gets messy. I have always been afraid of this over-connection, this accountability for the emotional well-being of others. It’s both suffocating and terrifying to believe that you and you alone can make or break another’s spirit. What power we have has individuals, what pain we can inflict. Our capacity for good seems overwhelmed at times by the reality of our evil. So we start to believe that we cannot touch anything without it turning to stone.

But our capacity for darkness does not outweigh our ability to create light. It’s quite the opposite. Our darkness allows our light to shine all the brighter, illuminating the fact that there is someone working out beauty from our brokenness. I don’t like perfect people. They annoy me. People who seem to have it all together, who are bright and shiny and think that the world is basically good. It’s not. And no amount of ignoring the ugly will make it go away.

I am learning to engage myself and those around me as we are. In the middle of our mess, in the middle of our majesty. It’s so easy to want to fix. To push and pull until we get the outcome we are looking for. We want ourselves to be as we imagined ourselves to be, and others the same. But we are where we are, and there is purpose in it. We are being created even now, in the midst of our chaos, in the midst of our darkness, in the midst of our mistakes.  And our mistakes do not make us mistake-makers. They make us humans, capable of messing up in a thousand different ways. But I say that the most beautiful people I know, the ones that I believe in the most in this world, are the ones who are riddled with scars and full of grace. The ones that don’t get it right the first or second time, but know how to fail well and move forward. The ones who know they have flaws but allow grace to do what it was meant to do—make saints out of sinners. Because the truth is we are all imperfect, some of us just hide it better than others.

Don’t be afraid to be a container. Our capacity for love will always make us more vulnerable to pain and fear and responsibility. That’s  OK.  We are healers as much as we are hurters. It is inevitable that you will cause another pain. But you also have the chance to be a part of a miracle.

Stand still.

Look around.

Let your mess be your majesty. 

On being still.

NYC transit. 

That's all I have to write.

Just kidding. But seriously, if you have ever taken a train in NYC you KNOW that there is no shortage of stories to be told from experience. I have been here a little under two months and I cannot even begin to write about everything that I have witnessed. It's an adventure and I'm grateful for every part of it.

Sometimes I just see things that are inspirational. People being generous and kind. And that is no small feat here in the concrete jungle. It's difficult to be compassionate here, with so many people and so many ways to stay irritated. I will be the first to admit that my patience is lower than usual, just from the sheer influx of bodies in my general space. I am not used to that. I don't like to be touched. How ironic that I moved to one of the most highly populated cities in the nation, where I have the privilege of being involuntarily smashed up against by my neighbor daily, for better or for worse. Usually for worse.

Nonetheless, I have learned to look for goodness where goodness may be found. Yesterday, I saw a mom holding her toddler on the train. He was too young to walk, but old enough to stand with her help. She was letting him bounce up and down on the ground as the train moved from stop to stop, lovingly keeping him stabilized so that he didn't fall over. Eventually, he started to squirm. He did NOT enjoy the fact that he was confined to that one space, literally on lock down so that he could do nothing but stand and jump. And no matter how he tried to convince his mom to let him go or how hard he fought to get away from her, she would not budge. And he hated it. He flailed. He screamed. He did everything he could to try to acquire his freedom, and his mom didn't even get mad. She just kept holding him, kept waiting, kept gazing at him with concern and pure adoration. She sympathized with his plea, but refused to give him what he wanted because she knew it would be harmful. Toddlers on the train will go flying if not properly monitored. She knew this. I knew this. He didn't. 

And so he fought the air. 

I do this often. I look at my life and scream MORE, desperately grasping for that which I do not have. Usually (and lately) it's control. I am a control freak. I didn't know it was as bad as it was, well until I lacked it that is. And I lack it so painfully here. I want to run forward towards my dreams. To take hold of the victory now, to see things happen in a second and right before my eyes. I had a very strong idea of what my life would look like here. I dreamed it up for seven years, after all. I was displeased that God did not deem it necessary to give me everything that I wanted after working so hard to get to this place. I pay astonishingly little attention to what I need or what will keep me safe or what is beneficial to others. So in a whirlwind of panic I fight the air with everything I have, trying my hardest to escape the feeling of being uncomfortable by whatever means necessary. 

And God is there through it all. Holding me tight around the waist with patience and probably great amusement. Whispering in my ear to be still while I respond with a resounding I CAN NOT DO THAT. Being still is hard. Waiting is hard. T.C. Upham says it beautifully:

“The disposition. . . to leave the dearest objects of our hearts in the sublime keeping of the general and unspecific belief that God is now answering our prayers in His own time and way, and in the best manner, involves a process of inward crucifixion which is obviously unfavorable to the growth and even the existence of the life of self.“

Inward crucifixion. That means it's not easy, but actually quite painful. Waiting is painful. It's uncomfortable. We don't know what to believe or how to think about our situation. So we fight the air. We fight God. 

And in doing so, we miss out on what he is doing right now. Where he is trying to take us. We are convinced we can find our way to silver, when all along he has been leading us to gold. He is trying to keep us safe, but we don't want his safety--we want immediate satisfaction. 

Be where you are. Stand still and let the chaos continue around you. There will always be confusion in this world. But there is constancy that comes from acknowledging the one who knows the plans he has for you. 

Don't fight that. Hold on to it desperately. Because sometimes, it is within our stillness that we find our strength. And we never would have had access to it lest we had waited to hear the quiet, courageous voice that was leading us all along.  

Shine bright

I recently moved to NYC. After seven years of dreaming and hopefully planning, my life has finally landed where my heart has always been. I am home, and it feels this way in every sense of the word. I feel so fortunate that God has placed me in a city of such abundance, and paradoxically, need. Being here offers me the opportunity to watch the world go by—the people as they experience their ordinary, extraordinary lives. It is really a miraculous thing, to know that not one passerby is not known and loved by God. I am so sure of this truth that every time I witness an act of goodness, I am moved to tears because it reminds me so surely that God is in this city.

Even in the places where it seems that God is so surely not to be. In the places of darkness. Greed. Loneliness. It is so easy to get caught up in the shadows here, in the things that are not instead of the things that are. For instance, I live in the South Bronx. I have a giant, dark, ugly fence on my window that was placed there to keep things of the outside world from getting in. It is there for my protection, but so often it feels that it is there for my imprisonment. I look at it and am reminded of all the bad this world has to offer. In the same thought, I am reminded of all the ways in which I have built my own fence up, a personal fortress from which I can carefully plan and protect my heart from any harm.

And no one is exempt from this caged-in reality. We build fences because they work. So well, in fact, that we reinforce our fences unknowingly. We get confused and listen to the wrong people, to the ones who are well meaning but undeserving of such power. In our effort to be loved and accepted, we make an exception for those that speak to us in familiar ways. Those that can confirm our own ideas of ourselves and the world around us, whose love makes sense to us. And we don’t even know that we have traded the things that are for the things that are not. We have traded in our light for darkness, and we are comforted by the familiarity of the shadows. We don't know how to reach the things that are because the things that are not scream louder. We stop challenging and become complacent, and our fence becomes commonplace.

And so our fences remain, constant reminders that our lives must stay small in order to survive this incredibly unsafe world.

But what if our safety comes from within? What if our walls, broken and repaired in our own fashion, can be rebuilt? Can be made into something beautiful and just as strong? Can become instruments of light in a world that is begging for healing? In places that are waiting to be restored? Can transform from the thing it is not to the thing it can be?

In an effort to change my fence into something beautiful, I have chosen to decorate it with lights.  I didn’t take the fence off, leave it as it was, or ignore it. I engaged it for something beautiful. And in the same way we must choose light through the acknowledgement of the darkness. We don’t escape the things that are not by simply acknowledging the things that are. We have to know what it is we are fighting. To name it, to call it by what it is. And then, when we are ready, we grasp hold of the light and refuse to let it go until we are beautiful again. We fight. We are resilient.

We shine so bright that the darkness has no option left but to surrender.

And so our fence, old, rusty and effective at reminding us of who we are not, becomes the thing that leads us to what we are—lights that were never meant to be dimmed in the face of darkness. 

To those who own the night: Thank you for sharing your light

I have lived a full life in Virginia Beach these past two years. No other season has produced quite as much growth as this one, and while I am sad to be leaving I know it's time to move on. However, what has made this stage most meaningful are the many friends who have so graciously walked with me through it. They have taught me so much, and I feel their lessons should be passed on to the world. Therefore, this blog is dedicated to them: the courageous, the strong--the ones that taught me not to be afraid of the dark.

Jenny: By being who you are, you have given me the gift of patience. You are an extremely dedicated and loyal friend. You don't give up on those around you no matter what the circumstances are, and you are committed to standing with them. Your sensitivity to the needs of others is such a beautiful thing, and a true part of who you are. You have taught me grace in such a tangible way, and I can honestly say you are one of the most caring people I know. You are my sister-friend! Memories: that time we decided to "wash" the blinds", CRACK DONUTS, THE SQUALLS, just going out in general, tequila, watching illegal movies, crying a lot as we figured out we were a little more messed up than we originally thought, all our talks (about the s word), being obsessed with the Olympics, GOT, your baking, festivals and concerts, CRACK BAT, trying (and failing) to make fires, sharing a bathroom with you, and just really all the moments we shared together talking about absolutely everything on our bedroom floors.

Lydia: You are my person. Whatever I've been through--you get it. You know before I even say it, and you normalize my experiences. You have given me the freedom to be who I am, where I am. That's a once in a lifetime sort of thing. It is rare to meet someone who knows. You are actually probably the only person who would even understand what this means. You love me because of my flaws, because you see how they have made me who I am. You get me. Let's get married one day. I love you! Memories: fort building, laughing at things no one else gets, Baxters, that time we just stared at everyone at Eagles Nest, IT'S NOT MY FIRST TIME IN THE WORLD and SO FAR SO BAD, all the salsa nights, dancing in the rain, hanging up the twinkle lights for approximately one hundred hours, being terrible at karaoke but still singing to THE HEARTS ALL OVER THE WORLD, all the beautiful gifts and thoughtful notes you left for me, THE CIRCUS and a thousand balloons, our lesbian dates, running the 5K we did not train for, listening to J. Cole and T.I. on repeat, FROYO all day, ODing on Brad Pitt, ABSOLUTELY NO BINGO PARKING, being in the dark place, timbs, and our times contemplating the darkness of the world and the strengths of our souls at the lake

Sammi: Your spirit! I just love your spirit. You are so humble and kind. I love our hippy backgrounds and I love that you have a great deal of wisdom. Thank you for letting me be, for letting me sit with you and watch endless hours of Dexter and Gossip Girl, for listening to my problems and really thinking about your responses. You see people. That's a gift. Hold on to it. Memories: Being very introverted and very OK with it, Gilmore Girls, Gossip Girl, Dexter, drinking so much wine and eating so much chocolates, complaining about how our bodies are failing us in our old age, that time we did that project together but didn't really know each other, sharing knowing glances because you can read my mind, throwing a party, listening to chill music and just being chill together, talking about boys that are idiots and acknowledging the irony of our lives, spending all the best times in your bed and not talking and watching Community

Elise: My scar sister and beautiful friend. Thank you for ALWAYS believing in me, loving me, and talking me through my crazy. I have shared so many laughs with you and can't wait to share many more. You have a genuineness about you that cannot be faked, and a wisdom that can only come from experience and insight. I absolutely cherished our time together in VA Beach, and all the fun-filled moments that we shared EMBRACING life after depression. Thank you for teaching me how to enjoy all life has to offer--you have made my life richer in so many ways and I have learned how to CELEBRATE because of you. Memories: CHKD, going to the Banque, going line dancing pretty much all the time, getting sloppy swish, dancing on dead grandmas table, NOBODY ASKED YOU PATRICE, hitting up the beach, training and somehow running the Shamrock, BRUNCH!, "Who's to say, really?", having effing problems, KIKI, your memes!! (erase them), summer shandys, GALentines day, life is hard move on, THE OFFICE quotes, WARBYS, complaining about Regent, eating pasta, grasshoppers

Tranese: Thank you for being such a great listening ear! Living with you for a year was a blessing, and I learned so much from you as we connected over our past. You are understanding, humble, and compassionate, and I know that these traits will only benefit you as you continue forward in your program. Thank you for teaching me how to be gracious and for taking the time to answer and examine some of the harder questions in life. Your willingness to engage in "messy" topics in order to bring about healing is really admirable, and such an example to me. Thank you for being who you are!
Memories: cooking southern food, listening to Backstreet Boys during lightening storms, laughing at dumb YouTube videos, oooh child things are gunna get better, Regent CARES and our crazy callers, helping you put together your bed, and all of our talks about family, love, and life. You are amazing!

Justin: Unconditional confidence. You have always seen me, even when I would try to convince you otherwise. You have never let me sit in my shame or in my not-good-enough, and for that I am grateful. You let me be who I was, where I was, and I never worried that you would change your mind about me if you saw my dark side. From you I learned that vulnerability does not equal weakness, and that I am worthy of love and belonging. You are going to be an amazing therapist! Memories: Principle Frye, FOR YOUUUU, getting Wendy's way more than we should have, hours upon hours at Starbucks, comparing our lives to New Girl, JAR, laughing at the ridiculousness of life, just laughing in general, YouTube videos and Vines, suffering through summer semester together, learning from our weaknesses and our strengths, realizing that we'd LOST THE ABILITY TO LOVE, going through my MMPI results as you patiently convinced me I was not crazy, EVERYTHING ALL OF IT

Tiffany: You are my girl! I love you so much! I am SO THANKFUL for everything you have taught me this year. You have made me a braver, better person. You are so compassionate and full of genuine care for others, I know that you would do anything for your friends and for the kids at Seton. You are hardworking, strong, and confident in your abilities. You have taught me to believe in myself, and I will always carry that with me. Memories: Planning our Halloween Hunt, talking for hours about our relationships, laughing at our crazy kids, embracing the drama in our life, going to Rainbow Cactus, celebrating my birthday, figuring out how to be better counselors, talking about Charming Charlies!

Jasmine: So much love. For you. Always. I love our adventures, I love our talks, I just love everything about you! If I could live with you for the rest of my life I would probably be content. You SHINE from the inside out and have a way of impacting those around you for the good. You are a life changer. I am so blessed to have met you, and I can honestly say you are one of the COOLEST people I have ever met. You have taught me NEVER to be afraid of what other people think, to embrace everything life has to offer, and to live LOUD. I go into my future with great hope and expectation because you have pushed me to follow my dreams! Memories: Goofy movie (you know), the Valentine's Day Olympics, raiding the kitchen ALL DAY, eating way too many donuts, drinking wine and going to Trader Joe's, NACHOS!!, walking around Ghent, making the kids do that crazy laser maze, bonding over similar pasts, GETTING OUR TATTOOS. I love you to the moon and back!!

Chief Keith: You have been such a big part of my life this year. Thank you for ALWAYS bringing me back to reality and for constantly reminding me of who I am. You were such an amazing support this year and my intern experience would have been so different without you! Thank you for going with me into dark places and for holding the light up when I could not. Because of you I have learned to own my positive qualities, embrace my crazy, and to get out of my head (though we both know I am still working on that one). I will be a better clinician and a more whole person because of you!
Memories: CRAZY TOWN (enough said).

Less love.

"It is not that she wants more, child. It is that she wants less. Arthur's love for her exceeds reason, surpasses all the prescribed rules, and it frightens her."

I have been disengaging my whole life. Disengaging from people, from relationships. From myself. I have always felt things really strongly, past my soul and straight to my heart. It makes it difficult to be present because so often I am not. I am lost in my head, trying desperately to keep my emotions from overcoming my thoughts. It's exhausting, but it's the way I have learned how to live.

And with this disengagement I have hurt and been hurt. Lost in a sea of trying to care less in order to be less vulnerable. In trying to be strong. Unfazed. And within this space I have become the definition of cool. Nonchalant. Safe. And also a little bit dead inside.

I don't want to be perceived as crazy, needy, emotional--you know. All the words we get slammed with as women. We never want to be that girl. The unhinged one. The one that wants just a little too much, who gets a little too attached too quickly. And so we play the game. We distance ourselves from who we are and from each other. Because in loneliness there is at least predictability.

But that's the thing--we are alone.

Your heart will break a million times, in this day and days to come. We will be crazy at times. That's also a guarantee. Love is still worth it. That's a fact. Because without it we will not survive the dark. We will lack purpose and meaning, joy and hope. We must lean into the love we feel--from God, ourselves, and others. We must want more love, not less.

We cheapen our value when we only accept the love we think we are worthy of. Because the true truth is that our behavior and who we are does not determine how much love we are to receive. Love is not dependent upon these things. It is within our human relationships at times, which is why so many of us have shut ourselves off from the world. But at the center of it all, the greatest love that we can experience, that steady, unchanging adoration--that's not less love. That's more. It's powerful and scary and a little bit overwhelming. It's the God-of-the-universe kind of love. It's the lens that we should be looking at ourselves through. That we should be asking other people to see us through. That we should believe as most real about ourselves because it is the actual reality.

And we can feel God's love and live out of it, but we also have to tell ourselves our worthiness and live out of it. We have to keep bringing our minds and hearts back to these things, because we forget. Because so many people tell us differently, because we are capable of hurting and being hurt. But you are the only you there is--flaws and all. And we all have flaws. We don't look at each other as broken and unworthy because of our scars, and we should do no less for ourselves.

Don't settle for less love. For disengagement. Be brave. Take heart. Love wildly.

Love more.

What I learned mowing my lawn. In the dark.

This week, I decided to mow my lawn. In the dark. I grabbed my headlamp, headed out the door, and revved that beautifully red rusty machine up at approximately 9:15 PM. I'm not sure what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn't. All I know is that mowing the lawn brings me peace and clarity, however strange that may be. And after a particularly long week, I knew I needed to sort things out--to center my reality and stop my mind from spiraling wildly towards the point of no return. For some people it's running. Journaling. For me it's mowing. I love it. I don't know why, but it works.

So there I was, blindly making my way through the jungle that had became our backyard and praying to God I wouldn't chop off my feet as I stumbled through the foliage. You never really notice how many particles are in the air until your headlamp highlights all the possible debris you could be ingesting in the dark of the night. It's quite alarming and also sort of surprising to acknowledge that the air you are breathing in isn't exactly clean. It makes me wonder what else in my life is unhealthy that I don't see or choose to pretend is not there. Bad behavioral patterns, comfortably uncomfortable relationships. Things that keep me from being all that I am trying to be. Things that aren't true. It's much easier to inhale and suffer the consequences. Unfortunately the long-term effects usually outweigh the immediate satisfaction.

That air made it hard to mow. You know what else made it hard to mow? The dark. I could see approximately five feet in front of me, and had to rely mostly on my memory map of our yard to make sure that I was actually headed in the right direction. Plus I couldn't be sure that I wasn't actually mowing the same patch of grass over and over again. So I did the best I could. I stuck with what I knew, didn't stray too far from the path, and kept moving forward. And isn't life like that sometimes? We aren't sure what's ahead and we sure as hell don't want to look behind, so all we can do is keep pushing. Keep trying. Keep using all our resources, everything we have, just to pick ourselves up and make it through our day.

We are uncertain. We are afraid. We feel the pull of "not enough" and perhaps the greater tug of "enough already". I'm not cut out for bright and shiny. I can stay about as positive as the next person, but sometimes living is just plain hard. Fact. Our seasons wax and wane, and some are better than others. We cannot be our very best selves year after year. All we can be is our best selves in the moments that are offered to us, and at times that will feel like failure. But if you are trying to mow your lawn in the dark and all you have is a headlamp to light your way, you may as well cut yourself some slack. You can't control the sun or the fact that the grass may look massacred in the morning. You do the best that you can with what you have. And so you keep mowing, praying that the God of the universe is holding your hand in the ultimate game of blind man's buff.

And that's really where we learn to put our trust. I think we fear that God will let go, that we will somehow wander too far for him to ever bring us back again. That we won't be strong when push comes to shove, when it's time to be brave and courageous. That we will be afraid of the dark. And you know what? We probably will be. We are human after all. But here's the thing--God knows how we are when we cannot see. He knows that we are prone to panicking, to doing foolish things in order to maintain control. To doubt. He knows. But that does not make him turn away. Love us less. Shame our actions or ridicule our mess. He sees what we have made in our struggle and gently reminds us that there is grace. And that with that grace comes redemption. So that even when we mow the lawn in the dark, we know that when light hits the horizon we have a chance to make everything new once again. Because here's the thing--the grass will regrow.

And so will we. We are not alone in the dark.

And the sun will always, always rise again.

Revolving.

I am constantly trying to outrun my future. Like, constantly. Constantly planning, constantly managing, constantly fighting against what seems to be gravity's intense intent to pull me back down into all that I do not wish to be. It gets tiring after awhile. All that struggling. Stressing. Worrying. I want to believe that if I just try hard enough, I can fix it. Fix me. Save myself. I want to believe that I am in control. Because if I'm not, then what happens? What happens when shit hits the fan and it's my fault? What then? I'd like to think that I won't self-destruct one day but who knows really? Sometimes life smacks us in the face and there's no guarantee we'll get all the way up again.

Some days I'm scared to dream because I don't know if I'm strong enough to carry out all that I want to in this world. I'm scared. I want to be brave, to be courageous. To push forward when everything is telling me to run in the opposite direction. I'm afraid. Afraid I will succumb to the voices that are whispering, "You are not good enough." And most of all, I'm tired. Not just physically, but mentally. Every night I go to sleep with a list of things that I didn't do right and wake up with a list of things I feel I will never be able to accomplish. At best I feel below-average. And below-average makes no promises, contains no hope.

At least, in my reality. But in God's reality--well that's a different story. And it's surprising to me how often I forget about this whole other truth, this whole other plan for my life. One of my favorite songs right now is "Revolving" by this little band called The Assemblie. I had never heard of them, but their song came on my Pandora last week and jolted me out of a slew of negative thoughts. I've pasted it below so you can take a listen.

http://theassemblie.bandcamp.com/track/revolving

I know I’m a mess and You’re constant
Always here come rain or shine
Life is fast and You are still
I could never outrun You.

We could never outrun Him. Think about that. No matter how hard I fight or try to resist failing, He is constant. He is greater. And He is within us. So that means there is HOPE. Hope for change, hope for healing, hope for a future. For wholeness. It means I can stop running. Because the greatest thing that I have learned today is that I cannot outrun the maker of the universe. I cannot outsmart Him, surprise Him, or convince Him that I am not, in fact, the person He made me to be. 

My small group leader in college would always talk about how sometimes we are running around this track as fast as we can, trying to "do" our way into being loved by God and others. And God is over there in the sidelines like, can I get a word in? And we are all like NO NOT NOW GOD, I'm busy. And then God yanks us off the track, makes us pop a squat, and tells us something about ourselves. And that something is that we are LOVED, we are REDEEMED, and we DO NOT HAVE PROVE IT ANYMORE. We are enough! We are enough. And out of that enough-ness flows our real accomplishments. The ones that matter. We are His plan A. And His plan B. We cannot write ourselves out of His script in a way that will make Him give up on us. He won't. 

So keep revolving around Him. Give up on absolutely everything but Him. Know that you could never outrun Him. Stop trying. Listen--and hear the voice that is cheering you on towards everything you were meant to be.

Becoming the sun.

"He's not the sun. You are."

If you saw the last Grey's episode with Christina leaving, you know what this quote is from. Referring to the relationship between Meredith and her McDreamy, Yang gently reminded her person of her place in the world. And it worked. Grey channeled her inner sun and stood up for herself and all that she wanted out of life.

I love this quote because I feel like it is so reflective of how we operate in life. We have our "sun". The thing that our hearts and minds revolve around, that dictate who we are and what we believe to be true about ourselves. It's usually very draining and extremely blinding to reality. And we can't see around it. We devote all our energy to our sun, forgetting ourselves in the midst of it. Making ourselves smaller. Less bright. Less beautiful. And we let it happen again and again. We watch that sun set and rise and convince ourselves that it's the way it must be.

And we become discouraged. We feel out of control and powerless to the patterns that run us. The sun seems so powerful, too strong to overcome. And in all honesty, we don't want to try. We are afraid that if we do we will have to acknowledge that what we have been running after is not as significant as we have made it to be. That it does not fulfill us. Rule us. Shape our days and nights. And that's terrifying, because who are we when we can't define ourselves by what we do?

Our suns fail us. They do. And they always will because they were never meant to be the center of our universe. Who we are was never meant to be dictated by the things we accomplish or the people around us. By our suns. In the same way that we could never exchange earth for the sun, it is absolutely useless trying to shove anything but ourselves into the role that we were meant to play in this life. We are valuable. We cannot be replaced. Why do we spend so much time trying to be someone we are not? Paying attention to the things that are unimportant? The things that are mere stars in the vastness that is our own galaxy?

People fail us. Professions fail us. We fail ourselves. But that is a component of the things that happen, not the core of who we are. We do not have to listen to our suns! We do not have to keep circling around the things that make us smaller, that diminish our own light and keep us from being all that we were meant to be. I'm not trying to say we should be narcissistic. I am trying to say that we have a choice--a choice to believe that we are brilliant and powerful and capable of changing the world. Of taking hold of our worthiness and believing it over the things that will eventually pass away.

Let your sun rise today. Push everything else back into place. You were meant to be you--shine bright.

Even if you were told.

"Look out at the nations and pay attention! Be astounded! Be really astounded! For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told." Habakkuk 1:5

We are unstable creatures. As much as we want to believe and hope that we are less crazy than the next person, by and large we all have parts of us we fear being exposed. We are vulnerable. At times, we are afraid to trust in good things. To accept joy because we aren't sure where it's going to end up in the long run. We wrestle. We attempt to control, to brace ourselves for the fall we feel is inevitably coming.

I learned long ago that we aren't promised the life that we imagined. We aren't guaranteed the white picket fence, or whatever it was we were putting all our dreams into. In America, I think we hide this better. We have things that can mask our pain, that convince us that we are full and happy. We can pretend. Not always, but we can at least work at pretending, assuring ourselves that we are satisfied with what has been given to us. And I think at times we are. Sometimes we have been fighting so long to keep our head above water that when we can finally stay afloat, we think we have achieved our goal. So we go on floating, struggling to keep the waters from overcoming us once again.

We wonder where to hope. I have gone through seasons where I felt nothing but despair, where I seriously questioned the goodness of the God I claimed to believe in. I have seen so much pain, and at times it seemed that there were no answers that could ever account for the injustice I witnessed on the behalf of others. Eventually, I became so emotionally distraught by the prospect of such continuous suffering that I became severely depressed. Nothing made sense to me anymore.

These feelings hit me particularly hard as I worked in a classroom with children who had multiple disabilities. For some of them, life would never get easier. This was their world--doctors appointments, medications, endless therapies, death. To see them suffer was to feel the weight of everything this life was not meant to be. It was soul crushing. I was helpless. I became bitter towards God.

That was the longest year of my life, and it was only a portion of theirs. Despite my wariness, I kept questioning. Kept looking for hope. Kept wondering at the purpose of it all. For them, for me. To find meaning again.

Slowly, God answered.

And it wasn't all at once. I wrestled. I cried. I ate lunch in the closet. I prayed quite a bit. I asked God to show me where he was in the mess, in the unfortunate realities that seemed to be the only realities there were. He didn't answer directly, but in a very tangibly intangible way. He didn't change my circumstances or the circumstances of those around me. He changed my heart. He changed my perception. He allowed me to see the beauty and hope that was being created within myself and the lives of those courageous children. In the millions of moments we shared, good and bad, as we struggled through that year together.

They were my hope, and I was theirs.

They taught me to struggle well. Sometimes I would look into their eyes, and I would just know that God was peering back out at me. Tenderly. With great concern. And most of all with understanding. They understood. They knew. They loved me. On my good days, on my bad. They had patience. And I want to say I believe they had hope. Because they knew where to place it--not in their bodies or in their brains or even in their doctors. But in love. In strength. In the belief that while the things of this earth would pass away, their bright spirits would not. And so they lived.

And so did I. I came to realize that God does promise to be with us--not always in the ways that we want but most certainly in the ways that we need. He is there in our emotions. In our crazy moments, in the darkness that we are so afraid to peer into. And He sees our light. He believes in it so firmly, no matter how far the distance, and is willing us to look. To come and see our scars, because He is working even now to heal them. To know that though things may look broken and beyond repair, He is present and unwavering, standing in the gap until we are ready to believe in hope again.

There are no easy answers to suffering. To our own battlefields of the heart and mind. But if there is one thing I know it's that God does not deny the pain, but quietly and compassionately gathers it up into his arms, whispering new life and healing into that which we believe to be eternally damaged, until one day we look up and realize we have reason to hope. We have changed. We have found those things that are stable in the midst of instability, and they can never be taken away from us.

We have hope, are hope. And I would never have believed, even if I was told.

The best thing I never had.

I love Beyonce. I mean really, who doesn't? This isn't the first time I've written a blog about one of her songs and I'm sure it won't be the last. Recently I was driving in my car and her amazingly sarcastic song "Best Thing I Never Had" came on. I found myself being unusually pumped by the lyrics as I loudly and proudly sang them off key in my car. It was sort of confusing though because I didn't have any recent exes to speak of that I felt particularly better off without. So with my counselor self I took a moment to examine what was going on inside me and realized that B's words were moving because there was something that I felt triumphant to be moving on from--and it wasn't a man.

It was my old life.

I know this sounds cheesy and perhaps even a little far fetched, but I needed to write it because it signals to me how far I have come. There is something within me, that is now a definitive part of my makeup, that knows I have moved on to better and brighter things. I remember so distinctly a time in my life when all was dark. When I thought my world would not get better, that my days had been numbered and all that was left was more pain and sadness. More fear. A time when I really believed I was going to end up alone and hopeless, without a future and barely clinging to the present. And now, that time is gone. That future that I held on to with such conviction and loyalty turns out to be the best thing I never had--and I can't help but joyfully sing about it. 

I was so certain of where my life would go, the type of person I would emulate. I thought I knew what I wanted, what relationships I needed in order to be able to function. Truthfully, my world was small. I was confined to a box that I had built around myself and was so sure that no other reality could possibly exist. I couldn't imagine a better life for myself because I couldn't see all that I was--a bright, beautiful young woman full of hope and resiliency. Capable and strong. Worthy.

How often do we do this? Define ourselves by what we think we deserve. Quietly deafen our screams for something different because we are too afraid to hope. Believe that we are invaluable and disposable, that we could not possibly matter to the world. Give up or make ourselves smaller.

I want to look back on my years and realize that I chose to let go of that which only served to bring me down. To triumphantly realize that I did not settle for a life that was less of me and more of everyone else. To know that I fought for goodness in the midst of difficulty, that I tried with all my might to let my light shine brightest even in the darkest of storms. To recognize my potential and live with unconditional confidence in my ability to change and grow into all that I was meant to be. 

To acknowledge who I thought I would be as the best thing I never had. 

Today in the midst of all the doubt and uncertainty remember that you get to choose where your path goes from here. Don't give up. Don't surrender. And wave goodbye to the past in true Beyonce fashion.

On letting go.

There are so many cliches on this subject that it almost feels unnecessary to write about it, but there are so many of them for a reason--we all need to let go of something every once and awhile. I have been thinking about this concept quite a bit lately and what it means for my life at this time, in this space. Let go. Of what? Bad relationships? Perfectionism? My dreams for the future?

All I know is that is has been gnawing at me, tugging on my heart and my head in small ways that have been difficult for me to acknowledge. Mostly this was because I didn't know what it was that I was supposed to be letting go of, and I was scared of what it would mean for me if I did. We all know that letting go is hard, and there are so many valid reasons for this. We don't like the unknown, for one. But what if the unknown is better than the known? What if by letting go we are actually latching on to something instead?

I have struggled with depression my whole life. It is familiar to me, almost comforting even. There is something about my sadness that is very grounding in its nature, letting me know who I am and how I feel, however miserable that may be. And I like it. I like the predictability of my depression, the constancy of it. I like knowing how I feel and what to expect and how to view myself. It's comfortable. It is safe. It's easy. And in some dysfunctional way it feels right, more true to the unassuming reality I want to believe in order to stay in my box. But it's not accurate.

I am a beautiful, strong woman. I have gifts and talents, compassion to offer the world. But I'm scared. I'm scared that I'm being too confident, too hopeful in the future that I have planned for myself. I'm terrified to let go of the identity that I spent 24 years carefully protecting. The identity that was defined by who I thought I was, rather than who I was not. And let me tell you what I am not--I am not weak, shallow, or unworthy of love. I am vibrant, full of life and joy and laughter and ready to embrace these qualities as TRUTH. This doesn't mean that I don't have my days of sadness, my moments of doubt in myself and the people around me. What it does mean is that I am willingly letting go in order to hold on--to hold on to hope, goodness, and the knowledge that this world is waiting for everything I was born to be.

I want to practice letting go in order to hold on. Releasing the things that are toxic, the doubts that threaten to take me over, the shadow of my old self. It's not easy. It's uncomfortable. It feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong by willingly letting all this light into my soul. But if I can so easily believe the dark, what is stopping me from doing the same with its counterpart? If I am going to anchor my heart somewhere, it better be a place that will be able to weather the storm. Because the waves will come, and at times they may seem higher than what we can manage. But if we can latch on to the belief that we are worth fighting for and that we are capable of the fight, than the only thing that will sink are our doubts.

 Let go. Hold on. Allow yourself the opportunity to experience the best things in life, the ones that require vulnerability and courage. There will be storms. There will be wreckage. But there will also be a lighthouse to guide you through because you lit it yourself. You may not make it right away, and it may feel better to turn back. But the darkness does not define the light--you do.

Let's risk the ocean. There's only grace.

Unconditional confidence.

“God would seem to be too occupied in being unable to take His eyes off of us to spend any time raising an eyebrow in disapproval.” 
--Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart

I want to be loved. Actually, I want to be known and loved, and we all know these are two very different things. There are parts of me I don't like. Parts of me that seem too dark, that I try to hide from others. I am guarded. I will share absolutely anything with you about my life, but there is a difference between knowing someone and knowing them.

Sometimes, I look at the people in my life and I think, "If they really knew". If they really knew who was under here, who I was at my core, they would run. I feel that I am unlovable. That the parts of me that are accepted are just some misrepresentation of myself that others are tricked into liking. That I could never be enough, will never be enough, just as I am. 

But then I look at the people in my life that I love, who I have loved over the years. I look at the people I have helped, and who have helped me. Some of them are ordinary by the world's standards, but are still extraordinary to me. And then some of them are extraordinary by the world's standards, but still have ordinary problems underneath. Who decides what is extraordinary anyway? And how do I see beauty in so many others but fail to see it in myself? What makes me so extraordinarily ordinary compared to everyone else? 

But seriously. When someone says they love you, why is it our immediate reaction to assume that there is some SECRET PART of us that they could not POSSIBLY LOVE and have somehow NOT SEEN in the millions of years that they have known us? We must be really good actors. Good for us. I'm not sure how that works out in the end though, when our friends do see those parts of us and SURPRISE--they don't take their love back.

Or maybe, like me, you have people who have rejected you in the midst of a hard season. People who have told you that you are, in fact, not enough. That you are too messy, too much to be loved. And it has stuck with you. It's hard to shake, that feeling that you are broken, not together enough to be accepted by the ones who are important to you. There will always be those people, the ones that make us feel small, that reinforce the lies we want to believe about ourselves so that we can say--SEE? I told you so. 

I'd like to argue that those people are not truth-tellers. That there are parts of them that they are afraid of, that they don't want to be reminded of, that they can only encounter with judgement as a way of protecting themselves. The truth is that we are all imperfect. Who said that means we aren't valuable?

I have a friend who once said  he had unconditional confidence in my goodness. I love that. Unconditional confidence. That no matter what I did or how I screwed up, it did not change his knowledge of who he knew me to be. That I did not have to be defined by my failures or my successes, that I was worthy right were I was, in the middle of my mess. 

Believe the people who believe in you. The ones who know who you are when you can't remember anymore, who refuse to give into your very convincing argument that you are not, in fact good enough. But more than this, believe in yourself. Believe in yourself because you aren't doing anyone any favors by living in the shadow of all that you are. And you ARE so much to this world. You have so much to offer just by being you, right where you are. 

Researcher Brené Brown says, "Until we can receive with an open heart, we're never really giving with an open heart." As much as I don't like to admit it, I think this is true. It is necessary for us to learn to love and accept ourselves if we are going to make a life out of loving and accepting others. To continue to reject our positive qualities, the gifts we have been blessed with, the fact that we are enough--it is to live a lie, and there is no honor in that.

So step into the light. Embrace the truth of who you are, living with unconditional confidence in your own goodness. Let yourself be celebrated by the world because after all, you are the only one we've got.

Redeeming and being redeemed.

I tend to break a lot of things. I don't know if it's habit or a brain deficiency or just plain clumsiness, but it certainly is a flaw. My family and housemates are patient with me. Though they surely cringe inside when they hear the familiar shattering, they don't seem to mind too much. We all have the things we forgive in others, and I'd like to think this is one of mine.

Usually, you throw something away once it's broken. But every once and awhile there'll be something that you cherish--something that holds great meaning that you can't seem to let go of. So you get out the super glue and hope for the best. If you are lucky, you will be able to find all the pieces and put them back together. Some pieces may be beyond repair, and you have to do the best you can with what is left. Either way, you put great effort into mending the beloved object, and you are so thankful that you are able to redeem the essence of what it was that you don't mind the sight of cracks or the fact that it may never be perfect again. It's yours and you love it, cracks and all.

Sometimes I feel like I have been pieced back together like this. I have been broken, shattered against the realities of a careless world. My jagged edges have been glued together with all sorts of messy bandages, some which have worked better than others. I have grown and changed and rearranged the parts of who I am, sometimes trading the pieces, sometimes leaving them behind. And so here I am--art in the making, a perfect imperfection that doesn't always make sense.

Often, we feel as though our pieces are barely holding together, threatening to fly apart under the pressure of living. Particularly in our twenties. In these years, everything is changing all the time everywhere, everyday. It's as if the universe got too excited and couldn't wait for the rest of us to catch up. It's quite uncomfortable and frightening, realizing that we are not the people we thought we would be at this time. Realizing that control seems out of our grasp, and the firm hold we felt we had on who were and what we knew of the world were the first things to go.  The pieces are there but that's just what they are--pieces.

But: "There is a crack in everything---that's how the light gets in." 

I am certain that if there is one thing that this life is about it is redeeming and being redeemed. We need our pieces,  all of them, to be made whole. We are a mosaic of experiences, each important in forming who we are and who we will be. And we are healing. We have our cracks, our rugged edges and even the pieces we aren't sure will fit. There are days we walk through the fire, sure we will be reduced to ashes by the challenges that seem too difficult to bear. But we aren't. We are stronger. We are ourselves yet so clearly changed, and we wonder at the process of it all.

And so we move forward, broken, healed, and beautifully redeemed.

The lifer.

Working at Mont Lawn Camp is the hardest job you will ever love. Many people come in and out summer after summer, but the ones who stay are truly special at heart. We call these people "lifers"--and my beautiful friend Danielle Goncalves is certainly one of them.

Danielle has worked at MLC for eight summers. I cannot think of anyone else who loves our inner-city kids more than she does. She has seen campers grow up into counselors, into adults who are making a difference in the world. These kids are family to her, and they know it. They know she cares for them, they know she is there for the long run. They know they can count on her--she never fails to be gracious, compassionate, and accepting of who they are, where they are. She is passionate and committed, proving to her campers that there is nothing they could do that would ever make her give up on them. 

Because of how much she loves and believes in camp, Danielle has brought many people into the MLC family through the years. Her husband Isaac is one of them. After getting married (at camp of course), they moved to New York to begin Mont Lawn City Camp--a new program that serves the community year-round. Though they have faced many obstacles, God has proved faithful over and over again within their ministry and life. Their vision for this program is full of hope and light--and despite discouragements they have never turned back. In fact, their hard work has proven fruitful, as they are about to open a community youth center in the South Bronx this year. I know without a doubt that they will continue to bless the kids and families within this borough, and absolutely cannot wait to see what God has in store.

As if she does not already have enough on her plate, Danielle is also getting her Masters in Clinical Social Work. I am beyond proud of her! Though she hesitated to become a social worker, her special gifting with children and her heart for this population prompted her to apply and be accepted to this strenuous program. It is such a privilege to hear Danielle talk about what she is learning and the kids that she gets to work with day in and out. She puts everything she has into her work, and her love and respect for those she serves is incredibly evident. I know that the kids can feel that love, and I am confident she is a blessing in every setting that she encounters. 

I also have the great honor of calling Danielle my friend. Throughout my four summers at camp, Danielle and I would meet early in the mornings by the lake for coffee and prayer. These are some of my dearest memories from MLC, ones that I constantly refer to when I need encouragement or reminders of God's love. We have been through so much together, and she has never let me walk through the darkness alone. Holding my hand and my heart, she patiently sat with me through some of my hardest moments, loving me through the pain and standing with me on the journey. She is an irreplaceable part of my life, and I could not love her more.

Danielle is an MLC lifer--but she is also my lifelong friend. I know that no matter where we are or what is going on, she will always be there with a cup of coffee and a ready prayer. It's so exciting to think that I will be moving to NYC and get to live life with her once more, and the
thought of getting to be a part of Mont Lawn City Camp as a volunteer brings so much joy to my  heart. I love you Danielle!!! Thank you for being a lifer.