Our Gift //&// Our Undoing

I’m a heinous over thinker. I believe it’s a byproduct of being the oldest of 7 kids. I had no say in the matter; my parents set the stage perfectly. I over think things to the point that they stop being practical, action-oriented objective things.

I’ve spent a lot of time, angst, tears, anger and passion trying to find my ‘calling’. It’s elusive and I’ve given up. It made me sad every day I woke up and put on my (ill-fitting) khakis and went to work, so I gave it up.

Have you ever missed your face for the sake of your nose? I’ve spent so much time looking within and without myself for purpose that I’ve overlooked very obvious gifts and themes in my life.

I love to make people laugh. I recently got an appreciation card from work and I have reread the note about my sense of humor so many times that I should get it tattooed on my arm.

I like best to make people laugh with words. Oral or written. Sung or spoken. Texted or Instagrammed. Blogged or spinning around in my mind. I love to find a new way to describe anything.

I have a deep disdain for the shallow. I’m the employee you ask, “How’s your day going?” who always overlooks the, “I’m good,” answer for, “Well at this moment I want to quit,” instead. Because that’s how I really feel. I’m the over-sharer. I’m the daughter at Easter who tells her mom, “Don’t give me a package of Reese’s eggs in my basket because I’m just going to eat them all and then throw them up in your bathroom. Just give me the $4.95.” And I’m an introvert and achiever and I won’t make time for less.

Lastly, I love Jesus. And somehow in his sovereign grace and redemption He has turned my sharp sarcasm into life-giving humor, my words that used to cut into words that mostly heal, and my deep thinking into something that is life-giving to others and myself instead of condescending and self-righteous.

Before Jesus most of my ‘gifts’ were in fact my undoing.

So I’ve finally got some things stirring around in my wheelhouse. Combined with an undeniable redeemed relationship with food, and a misguided search for ‘purpose', and a newfound belief that being terrible at things is much more fun than being perfect.

I realize this post is more for me, than you this morning—but God uses lots of selfish things for bigger uses. Hopefully He’ll use this too.

9 THINGS THAT RACE THROUGH YOUR MIND WHEN INVITING SOMEONE IN

There’s nothing quite like seeing your place through another person’s eyes for the first time. Especially when that person is an attractive man you’re trying to impress.

1. Does this place read ‘endearingly cozy’ or ‘wow she’s poor’?
2. Whoa look at all my shoes. Is that too many shoes? Do they smell? What is the right number of shoes to have at your front door?
3. Please don’t let there be underwear on my floor.
4. Oh no the bathroom. Did I empty the garbage? Is that hair still in the shower?
5. Why do I only have orange juice and eggs in my fridge? I am not an adult.
6. My scale is in my kitchen. No kitchen table, but in case he wants to weigh himself we’re set.
7. Why do I have candles that have never been lit? They have dust on them. I need to dust.
8. He just opened Netflix. What was open on my desktop?! What was last on my Netflix cue?
9.   My bookshelf. What do my books say about me? FRANCINE RIVERS NOOOOOOOO.

 Hope you can relate. If you can’t, you likely started dating your significant other in high school when nothing reflected on you and it was all your parents’.  Growing up is hard.

Can I get a [WITNESS]?

If a tree fell in the woods and no one saw, did it really happen?

I’ve been chasing the tail of a feeling, an idea, a desire since I moved from my parents’ house and into my minimally furnished solo life. Solitude can be good for the heart and teasing abstract thoughts into writing. There has been no shortage of solitude the past few weeks. It’s this creeping uneasy feeling; most days I forget it’s there and rarely it wells up into full-blown unhappiness.

I figured I just needed to boost my social life. Yet weeks of reunions, lunch dates, and meeting new coworkers at work don’t seem to ease the tension.

I thought perhaps once I had more material things (i.e. anything more than a bed and silverware) it would go away but today I sit in a newly inherited chair, staring at 2/3 of an inherited knife block again realizing “things” aren’t the fix.

At this point, my usually restrained girl brain spirals into the only possible explanation—you know, where a boyfriend would fix things—because it’s so much easier to blame my problems on an imaginary person rather than the finicky heart beating in my own chest. (**Proceeds to post snarky comment about singleness on Facebook to give outlet to current frustration. Everyone likes it. Feels better**)

“God, can I get a witness?”

Finally I just blurt it out like I’ve secretly known my issue the whole time. (It sounds more like a whiny girl and less like an African-American, evangelical preacher).

And there it is: a witness.

Because even at the end of a day I have thoroughly enjoyed—unless I post more pictures/statuses/blogs/selfies than I am personally comfortable with in a day (read: 1)—no one else saw my day beginning to end. No one laughed with me while I choked on my toast while watching New Girl in a last-minute rush before work, or saw me get a PR on my three-miler, or heard me mess up the radio lyrics during my commute that blended ‘glory’ and ‘holy’ into an unfortunate mix of ‘hoary’.

And so there’s this trap in thinking that my life isn’t really happening if someone else isn’t there to verify the whole thing. And the trap gets deeper when I tell myself that I my problem would be solved with a spouse or kids or a roommate like everyone else.

God says, “I AM,” and suddenly He opens my eyes to see my heart’s tendency to put hope in creation rather than Creator. 

I’m filled with the Holy Spirit. I’m fully known by God. Christ is my Shepherd. 

Of course I have a witness.

…I just need the occasional reminder.

[Moving Days]

Gearing up for my 7th move in 3 years, it's inventory time again. I haven't decided yet if having so few possessions (read: a bed, dresser, buffet, and dog) is a grand accomplishment or a 25-year-old's failure. Probably both, let's be honest.

As much as I need bowls to eat food from and a couch to relax on, I would not be any more fulfilled than I am today if I had them. Since my inventory was quick to complete, I found myself daydreaming about all the things in my life that bring me fulfillment. I don't own any of them.


Some of my favorite things have hearts and souls and long hair and beautiful smiles. They make me excited about life's opportunities and the beauty of community.


Some have four legs and wet noses and have taught me more about what is important in life with their silence than I've learned from years of others' noisy words.


One is the Savior and the Son of God; He has given me unconditional love, a new heart and endless second chances.


Two of my favorites raised me and give me guidance for life they had to learn from experience. They both push and catch me through life.


Six are younger and share my bone structure and last name. They are unique and wonderful and trying to navigate life just like me.


There are other things like autumn sun, good perfume, a warm mug between my fingers, lilacs in the spring, hot showers, handmade scarves, the 60 minutes after a workout, surprises, generosity, folk music, and dancing like a fool. 


Thankfully, I can take all of these things with me wherever I go. No moving van required.

[UGLY] & BELOVED

I remember the first time.

I can’t recall what I was wearing but my flip-flops were a muddled blue in the weak, yellow light of the 4^th floor girls’ dorm bathroom—my feet firmly planted around the toilet seat of the corner stall. Sick from eating too much food, terrified of what it would do to my body, and exhausted from years of starving myself and over exercising, I reasoned it would be easier to just throw up. I did. That was the first time. It provided twisted relief and I thought I had discovered the solution to all my body problems.

I was eighteen and a college freshman. Now 25, I sit here a grown woman, still untangling myself from the consequences of a path I ignorantly started on seven years ago. It is a path of destruction and shame and lies and condemnation. Through my faith and belief in Jesus Christ, I can humbly say after years of growth I can now walk in victory most of the time. Still, I walked that destructive path so many times that even now I sometimes fall into the ruts, worn so deep, after years of habit.

Friday night was one of those nights. It started innocently with pizza and birthday cake, but in a momentary stumble in judgment, I found myself stuffed and headed into the bathroom.  I had done this, quite literally, over 1,000 times in seven years. It is mindless for me. But Friday was different.

In the midst of my self-inflicted misery, full of shame and food, I became aware of Christ’s immediate presence. I saw no vision, but he was there. I cringed inside as I prayed, “Jesus, I don’t want you to see me like this. I am sorry. I know I should be better. Just go away from me until I have cleaned up my mess.”

He didn’t leave. To my confusion I didn’t sense disgust from Him. He stayed and put his hand on my back to comfort me while I finished making myself sick. He didn’t shy away from my ugliness. He didn’t condemn me for my sin. I sensed him saying, “I love you. I always love you but I think you need to hear it right now, in this moment. I love you. Not after you have cleaned up. Not after you make up your mind to never do this again. But now—as you are—I love you.”

The weight of his words nearly stops my heart even now. I have been motivated to stop my sin by a great number of things—but none so much as the grace-filled love of Jesus.

But I am no exception. That is the heart of the Gospel:

“⁸ But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8.

And though I know that truth on an intellectual level, to experience His love and acceptance in my ugliest moment takes my breath away. Leaves me on my face. Makes it worth sharing my shame with you so I can share His mercy also.

I pray this week that God pins you down with His love. In the middle of your ugliest moment I hope he floors you with His grace.

Like Simon Peter we will fall to our knees and beg him, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:8) but that is not His way. He stays and loves and beckons us into an acceptance that trumps the allure of sin every time if we let Him. Let Him!

"I can't fix anything. Or anyone."

If I have learned anything in these first 3 weeks, it’s that we people want people to save us. Sometimes we look in friendships; “Can you see me?” Sometimes in marriages; “Am I worth loving?” Sometimes even in parent-teacher conferences; “Are my kids talented enough to make me feel whole?” And lots of us look to pastors; “AM I FORGIVEN?”

It’s remarkable how many people our pastors at Embrace meet with each week.

The meetings are good and necessary and bring healing and new ideas—yet it is so evident that we all so often want other people to ‘fix’ us. I believe that God has put a wanting in our hearts, a desire to be whole and clean and free. Unburdened, unburned. Full of hope and purpose. I believe God offers us these things in Jesus Christ.

But so often we get confused because we can’t see God or His Son. We can’t feel his touch or hear his voice. So we settle for things we can touch hear and see: people. People who are, in the end, looking for people to fix them too.

We ask them to fix our problems.

Point us where to go.

Tell us what to do.

Tell us who we are.

I have done this so many times in my life. I still remind myself every morning when I walk into the church that my bosses, my pastors, can’t save me.  They can’t give me a purpose. Can’t make me feel good enough. It’s tempting to ask anyway.

And now that I am in full-time ministry the thought of someone ever looking to me to ‘fix’ him or her is terrifying…because I am so broken, too. Coming to me for healing would be like taking your malfunctioning car to a blind, thumb-less mechanic wearing a dress. No one does that.

I’ve seen pretty quickly that people come broken into the church. Myself included. We drag with us our broken relationships, habits, spirits, beliefs and bodies. I used to think that being in ministry was like being a doctor at a hospital. Stitching and setting and diagnosing and putting-right. Now I know that’s not the case at all.

Instead, I am a gawky intern in second-hand scrubs blindly running the broken on wheeled stretchers to the only Great Physician that can do anything about their problems. Maybe I whisper words of encouragement along the way...if I’m doing it right.

Running them to the only One who can make us whole, clean and free. Unburdened and unburned. Full of hope and purpose. 

Do you know that Doctor?

"Once, I thought God lived in a song."

This morning has been a morning flooded with memories. Memories of a person I used to be, a person I’ve grown out of. Today—windows down and radio up—I made my way home from work/church (what should I call it now?) the song “Better is One Day” came on the radio. I smirked as I remembered the history I have with that song. Maybe you have history with a song, too.

Stories should start at the beginning. To set the stage, in summer 2008 at the age of 20, I volunteered and was chosen to be a short-term building missionary with Casas por Cristo. After 2 weeks of on-the-site/on-the-sand-dunes training, my first team arrived in El Paso, Texas at 6 AM to meet their intern (me) and cross the border into Juarez, Mexico to build a house in 6 days for a family in poverty. After about 10 minutes of small talk and introductions, a teenage boy in the group raised his hand and said,

“So when are we gonna meet our building intern?”

Slightly deflated [but faking unaffected], I answered, “You just did!”

Puzzled but honest, he replied, “No, I mean the guy who’s going to lead us on our build this week.”

”…Yep, that’s me.” [insert deflating balloon sound here]

The poor kid didn’t know that my confidence was already hanging on by a thread. I had tried to harness the energy of my terror into excitement that morning. I had avoided sharing that fact that they were, in fact, my first solo build. I was pretending I wasn’t 30 years younger than most the adult chaperones in the group. I had made sure I looked the part in my tool belt and work boots. [Full disclosure: I had taken sandpaper to them the night before so I didn’t look like I had escaped the pages of a Home Depot ad]. I had traced the route we would take into the unmarked streets of Mexico and recounted the turns and roundabouts over and over in my mind. I had checked my radio’s battery at least 20 times.

That kid’s comment still took me from confident to incompetent in 2 seconds flat.

When it was time to leave I debriefed the drivers of the two, 16-passenger vans on border crossing, we were on our way. As I walked ahead to my truck, climbed up into the leather bench seat and slammed the rusting door closed, the tears came instantaneously. As I pulled the shifter down to ‘Drive’ I could barely see. I was terrified. I was convinced I was going to get lost, forget the fiber in the concrete mixture, not be able to translate correctly, forget how to wire the ceiling fan, and eventually die somewhere in the dunes of Juarez with all of my unsuspecting team members.

As I turned out of the lot my hand groped its way to the radio knob and I turned it on to drown the noise of my sobs. As I adjusted the volume the song “Better is One Day” began playing and I immediately felt a peace and outpouring of the Holy Spirit on my physical body. My crying stopped. And in that moment I was convinced that God somehow lived in that song. [side note: I wired the fan perfectly and no one died in Juarez that week]

For years afterward (and many times that same summer) whenever I heard that song I was convinced God was present with me. If that song was playing, then He was watching and listening. Guaranteed.

That was 4 years ago and I haven’t thought of that song in a long time. In those four years I’ve grown leaps and bounds in my faith and I can’t identify with my former self anymore; that girl absolutely convinced God lived in a song. In that song.

When I heard it this afternoon, I smirked and had a thought conversation with the ever-present, omniscient Lord….

Him: “Remember when you thought I was ONLY with you when this song was playing?”

Me: nervous laughter, “Yeah. That seems pretty superstitious looking back.”

Him: “Well, I am quite pleased we get to hang out more often, now.”

Me: “Me too."