Homesick

One word describes me right now and one word only: Homesick. Fortunately, MercyMe voiced my thoughts long ago...

You're in a better place, I've heard a thousand times
And at least a thousand times I've rejoiced for you
But the reason why I'm broken, the reason why I cry
Is how long must I wait to be with you

I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord, won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
I've never been more homesick than now

Help me Lord cause I don't understand your ways
The reason why I wonder if I'll ever know
But, even if you showed me, the hurt would be the same
Cause I'm still here so far away from home

I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord, won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
I've never been more homesick than now

In Christ, there are no goodbye
And in Christ, there is no end
So I'll hold onto Jesus with all that I have
To see you again
To see you again

And I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord, won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
Won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
Won't you give me strength to make it through somehow

I've never been more homesick than now.

God is moving in my life right now. I don't necessarily see it or feel it, but I know He has to be, because I'm crying out to Him every day. If there's anything He's taught me, it's that even when I can't sense Him, I know He is working and has not forgotten about me. Elaboration later....

See, Hear, Feel, Want...

I see you everywhere:
See you in the children,
In the games,
In the competition,
In the laughter,
In the tears.
In the letters,
In the surprises.
In the airplanes,
In the nature.

I hear you in the music,
Hear your voice in the phone,
In the thunder,
In the pounding rain,
In the darkness
And my scary dreams.
In the light,
And the awe of His majesty.

And I want you,
In my pain,
In my joys,
In my adventures,
In my excitement,
In my failures,
In my successes,
In my future,
In everything you cannot be here for now.
I want you in all that you’ve left me to experience without you.
I want you in this city.
I want you to be proud of me.
I want you to smile at me,
That smile that I know only you can ever give.
I want you to tell me I’m beautiful
And I’m your princess.

And I miss you in all of it.
I miss you in all that used to be,
In all that is now,
And all that will be.
You were so good to us,
The best I could have ever asked for.
I can’t put it any other way, but these words don’t do my feelings justice,
I miss you.
So, very, much.
Yes, indeed, I miss you, loved one.

The DTR (a short piece)

He spoke the words she sensed were rapidly approaching. She tried and tried to deny the feelings developing in her heart, but to no avail. And then came the moment of truth; there they stood. The world around her ceased spinning as he held the power to make her produce tears of joy or tears of sorrow. He never meant for it to come this far.

She closes her eyes, attempting to force time to freeze. He squeezes her hand to remind her of the reality. She pleads and begs, desperately, for it all to be a dream. But when she breathes deep, and her eyelids shoot open, the icy cold air stings her eyeballs--a blatant reminder of reality. The clock strikes twelve, and they stand there, staring, breathing, caught in suspension and disbelief. Eyes locked, fists clenched, hearts burning—hers for his but his for another. The tension is painstakingly loud and as visible as their breath intermingling between their faces.

They can feel the warmth of their breath mixing with the thick, cold air: birthing the storm. Here comes the thunder; she blinks, and the lighting strikes as he lets go of her clenched hand. A slap in the face; a gasp for air; a wind-sucking blow to her gut. One last look of deepest, sincerest, painful apologies, assuring her of the happiness they once shared, confirming it was all real. He lingers for a moment, letting their thoughts meld into an unwanted, mangled mess of shared history—now lost with one, solitary conversation. Then, as he blinks, he turns, destroying everything to her.

She stands alone, shivering, tears streaming down her cold, rosy cheeks. She weeps. Arms hanging limply by her side. Achingly lonely.

Why? She pleads. It hurts. But any response she longed to hear failed her ears. Hot tears roll down her face. However, as the cry of her soul rings out, a blanket of Protection swiftly wraps itself around her.

She whimpers quietly, as she feels Him—knowing He could have prevented this. But where else can she go? She relents. Their fingers intertwine as she holds onto His promise. He walks with her, and she knows that He will wipe away every tear, make her smile, and heal her heart. He saturates her with his unfailing, suffocating, eternal love.

There is Hope. And Healing. And New Beginnings.

A Different World

A new year has begun. The majority of people have already given up on their New Year’s resolutions; or else they keep reassuring themselves they will start “tomorrow.” Seventeen days in and we lose hope of toning up, eating right, reading the Bible everyday, etc. We aren’t as ambitious as we thought, are we?

But for me, the New Year has different meaning. You see, I am more concerned with what quickly follows that New Year.

What I have found over the years is that months have meaning. There is special meaning, such as birthdays, there are holidays, seasons, special foods, special traditions, etc. Spring accompanies April; seniors and soon-to-be graduates prepare for a new chapter in life during May; June, July, and August are those glorious summer months—which kids love, because it means “freedom” for them. Plus, summer is the prime time for family reunions. And of course, in July, we celebrate the anniversary of our American freedom. September generally marks the beginning of college. October: Halloween, fall, candy, and costumes. November is the end of fall, the beginning of winter, Thanksgiving and all that entails (i.e. turkey, mashed potatoes, all that tasty and fatty food, tryptofan, family, Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, Black Friday, Christmas trees, and football). December is a huge one; We all know what December means: everything Christmas, family, hot chocolate, warm fires, children hoping for what they’ve wanted all year from Santa, parents completing last-minute shopping and maxing out their credit cards because they think material things will satisfy the heart and soul, snowmen, vacation, loneliness, Christmas music, the celebration of the birth of our Savior, and whatever other traditions you and your family may hold. January of course welcomes in the New Year; February is the month of love, either adding to the cynicism of broken, bitter, resentful, and lonely hearts or creating a sweet occasion for you and your significant other. And finally, March. You may wonder why I didn’t start with January and end with December. Or you may not wonder—you may know exactly why. I ended with March, because it is the most dominant month of the year in my world.

What’s so special about March? Not much. Maybe the beginning of spring, the Ides of March (but I only ever learned of that when I read “Romeo and Juliet” in high school). One bonus in March for me is the birthday of some of my very special friends. But other than that, I dread the month.

I dread it, because when March rolls around, I have to face the music. I have to face the fact that I have lived one more whole year without one of the most incredible men I ever knew and loved. I am forced to remember that however many years ago (in this case, three), I learned on the fifteenth (which happens to be the Ides of March that I mentioned earlier), at 9:50PM, while waiting for my daddy to come home, he would never again come home to our family’s house in our small town in Indiana. Never again would I see him walk into the mudroom with a big smile on his face, ever so joyful to be home with his family.
In March, there is no getting around the recognition that he is gone. No matter how far I have come, and no matter how much progress I have made, my emotions and feelings and logic are twisted into a mangled mess of devastation and pain.

But it’s not even the remembering that specific day that he died that hurts the most. And I’ve decided to tell you what it is.

I was talking to a dear friend of mine recently, and she has experienced the same loss as I have, so we connect well. She, however, has been without her father for longer than I, and though it’s the same pain, she has more wisdom than I do. So, while talking to her, I mentioned that what I hate about it being another year since my dad passed away to that wretched heart disease, is that it reminds me that I have lived one more year of my life without him. This is a little bit hard to explain, and I was having trouble voicing my thoughts to her. But she knew what I meant. And she put it into more coherent language for me.

The problem is that it is like I am living in a different time period. There was the time when I had two parents, when there were five people in my immediate family. Now, I live in a time when I have one parent. Everything is different. What is incredibly painful for me is that my father will never share this part of life with me here on earth. I never saw that coming. He was fine one day and gone the next.

And since the day he’s been gone, I have met countless new people; I have grown in countless new friendships with people. My dad would love all of my new friends. The majority of new people I have met are my friends at camp (BSE ’09) and my friends from Moody and Chicago. I would give so much to have my dad meet these special new people in my life.

This is what I mean about living in a different lifetime. In this time of my life, every single new person I meet will see my family as having four members (aside from my brother’s fiancée). No one I met starting three years ago or will meet in the future will EVER know one of the most important people in my life. They will never fully grasp who he was to me. Granted, many of the people I meet will never even meet my family at all, but many will—especially those I am closest to. The idea of them not knowing him is almost inconceivable (does that word make anyone else think the “Princess Bride” every time they hear it?) to me.

But, inevitably, here I am. Almost three years from the day I lost him. And what do I do? I could go on to describe the pain. I could go on to describe how exactly my life is changed. I could proceed to talk about the things I miss about him. But this post is long enough, and I have written extensively about all of those things already on this blog and in my journals. And besides, there comes a point, when sharing things online becomes impersonal. Our lives are special and personal. They deserve to be explored and shared through more than just the Internet. So I am always willing to talk more, but this is enough of my thoughts.

So, what I want to conclude with—before all of you who want to criticize me for not being joyful in all the good that has come from this experience, and all the wonderful ways God has worked in my life—is the acknowledgment of the fact that I am healing.

As much as one part of me hates to say it, life goes on. Obviously it does, because it’s been three years. The earth keeps spinning and spinning. I hate the term “moving on” because it seems to imply to some that my dad is less important to me, and his death isn’t as major as it once was. So, I don’t want to say that I’m moving on, but I do know that as time goes on, the pain will lessen. It will take a long time. But I heard a quote last night that I think sums it up. I’m not sure who said it, so if you said it, let me know, and I’ll give you credit.

“Acceptance is not about forgetting, it’s remembering with less pain.”

Just because I accept that he’s gone, and on March 15th 2010, he will have been gone for three years, doesn’t mean that I’m leaving him behind. I’m just able to remember him with a little less of a sting. I will always wish he was here, and I will always talk about him. I will never let anyone forget him, and my heart will always ache a little bit. But the pain will become less—eventually. Maybe not now, but it will come.
And in thirty years, when I tell someone that I lost my dad thirty-three years ago, I know they will shrug it off more easily than they would have now. Honestly, that will probably bother me. I will want to shout at them, and tell them that I still love him as much as I did the day he died. I will want to pound it into their head that he is as much a part of who I am as he was when he was living. But I won’t do that. I’ll let them think what they want, and I will simply remember, with less pain.

Now, I will actually conclude with telling you that I love the Lord, and I am forever grateful for the time he gave me with my dad. He never promised me I would have more than seventeen years with him, and I recognize that. So before you think you need to tell me that God will bring good from this, and I need to stop grieving my loss. Let me assure you that I have already seen God’s goodness in my father’s death. Just because it’s painful, doesn’t mean I’m living in misery and self-pity. I have already witnessed God’s sustaining Love and Power in my life and the lives of those around me, and I know I will continue to witness God working. I haven’t walked away from God, and I never will. I know I could not survive this without him. I’m striving to use the experiences He has put me through in order to bring serve Christ and glorify God.

Seventeen days into the New Year, means approximately 307 days closer to the third year anniversary I lost my father. But it also means it’s 307 days closer to the third year anniversary that he went home to live with our Heavenly father who never has and never will stop loving me and you. March might be extra painful, but it will also be a reminder of how God has blessed me through the roughest of times in my life. A lot has happened in three years, and a lot will happen in the years to come.

God, let me always glorify you no matter what you allow to happen in my life. No matter what your sovereign plan involves, no matter the pain, and no matter the joy, may you always receive the honor and the glory.

And Daddy, I miss you. I always will. The day you died is a day my heart broke in a way that will always cause it to ache. But you brought incredible joy to my life. You were a gift from God. You made sure to always acknowledge that you were my earthly father, and you told me, I need only to rely on God—because he is the only Constant, and the only One who will never let me down—because if I do that, “everything else will shake out fine.” Thank you, Dad. I love you.

Inevitable

It is always a difficult thing to watch the ones you love grow old, weak, and dependent on walking aids and what not. As a kid I didn’t think about the fact that as I grow, everyone else is growing as well.

My grandpa Magers died when I was young; I remember him, but I never had a relationship with him, as he died before I could really get to know him. But as I grew up, I became very close with all my other grandparents. My mom’s parents were divorced when she was in middle school so I’ve always had two sets of grandparents on her side, because they both remarried.

Recently, my grandpa Leichty—my mom’s step dad—died. Grandpa and I were close with each other. He loved to talk, and I loved to listen to him. He wrote me a letter when I was in eighth grade that I couldn’t read until I graduated, and it is one of the best letters ever written to me. He was always full of wisdom and knowledge. I remember, when I was younger, playing with my Grandpa; he was lively, active, and strong. My brothers and I always had fun with him. But inevitably, he aged and grew weaker. He had a stroke or two, and was left very weak and dependent on others.
His wife, my grandma Leichty—my mom’s mom—has endured much in her life. She is a strong-willed woman, and she supports others. She doesn’t slow down, and she really cares about others. She is such a servant.

I also remember my grandma Magers being very spry and independent. But I have witnessed her being forced to sell her house and living in an assisted living home. She can’t even write her own letters anymore. She does have a very good memory and can still have coherent conversations. Visiting her is one of my favorite things. But it’s been hard, watching her get old. Seeing her cry at my dad’s viewing and funeral was one of the most painful things I have ever seen. She lost her baby, and you could see the anguish in her eyes.

My grandma Martin—my mom’s step mom—has always been a wonderful woman in my life. She cares so much about her grandchildren. She always checks up on me. She has always been one of the strongest women I know. Over the past few years, as I have grown closer to her, I have realized what a wise woman she is. She has endured quite a lot of difficult circumstances in her life—things I won’t get into now—yet she still has faith, and she still serves others.

Grandpa Martin—my mom’s dad—has also always been very strong, but recently he was hospitalized for a heart condition. He is out now and doing much better, but it is still scary.

Now, the other day, I was at my grandma and grandpa Martin’s house and my grandma began talking about my cousin who was recently hospitalized at Riley’s for a heart condition. She was describing what happened when they visited him at Riley’s. While they were in there, my cousin began slurring his words and having other complications. As my grandma described the situation, she started to cry.

It was heartbreaking to me. As a kid, you just think they are invincible. But I am facing reality now, and I’m not saying I’m going to lose any of them soon. It has just been hard to see the way they change. They can’t do as much as they used to, they are more open with you, you find out things you never knew. It’s difficult for me to handle. I want them to never be hurt. I want them to stay young forever. I want them to be exempt from the effects of ageing. But they aren’t, and no one is.

Nothing I can do will keep them here with me longer; their lives are not in my hands. Therefore, the best I can do is just cherish the time I have with them. I can be grateful for the time I have with them, and I can remember their precious, valuable words to me. Thank the Lord they are even in my life at all. Each one of them has played a very important role.

Sara Dawn Mundy [a blessing]

Last year, the summer before my freshman year here at Moody, I was praying frantically that Sara (my roommate) would get into Moody for that semester. Two days or so before orientation began, the chances seemed slim. However, Moody admissions finally realized what an honor it would be to have Sara attend the Institute. So, that was awesome that she got in, but we wanted to be roommates, and it didn’t look like that would happen. Fortunately, though, her volleyball coach convinced Student Residence Life that it was absolutely necessary for Sara and I to room together. Cha-ching. Everything worked out!

Now at this point, Sara and I knew each other fairly well. We had been friends for a while, since we grew up in the same (small) town, same church, and one of my best friends is her cousin, but we had just begun growing closer over the past year and a half or so. Thus, I was very excited to get to know her more on the level of college roommates!

Boy, was I in for a treat. Let me tell you a little bit about Sara Dawn Mundy. She is incredible. My friendship with her is a blessing for which I am forever grateful. Sara is constantly encouraging to me. As I watch the way she lives her life, I see how much she cares about others. She has a compassionate heart and is very passionate about what she wants to do with her life. Sara is wise, though she may not believe it. When I ask her for advice or her opinion on things, ranging from fashion to theology, I feel confident with her responses. I know she speaks honestly, and I know she takes me seriously. Now, Sara has endured some extremely difficult and painful things while here at Moody, and I hate to see her hurt. But it’s a privilege to be able to walk through life with her, to be able to pray with her and for her, and just to take part in her life. This girl has a heart for the Lord, and she takes on trials and obstacles with great faith. She keeps her eyes on her True Love, and she rests in His love and comfort. I am incredibly excited to see where God takes her in this life.

On a different note, Sara is one of the FUNNIEST people I know. I am going to live ten years longer just because of how much she makes me laugh. I mean, she doesn’t even have to try. She is hysterical, and hearing her laugh brings joy to my heart. Oh, and she makes delicious food!

Another thing I love about Sara is that she accepts me for who I am. I can be myself around her; I can tell her anything that is on my mind without fear of being condemned or judged. I know she loves me, and she has proved that to me countless times. She serves me in many ways, and I definitely don’t deserve it. She puts up with my overreactions and my obnoxiousness (That’s actually a word!). She gives me wonderful, warm, loving hugs. She really is a gift from God.

I told her last year, “I love that no matter how my day went, I can always come back to the room knowing you’ll be there.” And it’s true; it’s always comforting to know I can come back to such a wonderful friend and sister in Christ. I love serving alongside her and growing with her.

Sara is beautiful internally and externally. She will go far in this world, because her ultimate desire is to serve her Maker. She knows what she’s been given, and she wants to give back to Him as much as she can. It’s an honor to be her friend, roommate, and sister. ☺ She is absolutely great. I really love this girl—from the depths of my heart.

Unrecognized Sin

This is a story about a girl who thought she was doing pretty well. She was content with where God had her, and she wasn’t dealing with too much. She was preparing for her future at a nice little Bible college. It was a new year full of new friendships, new classes, new professors, new passions, new ideas, etc… Everything was new. Life was exciting.

But then, through a series of events, she realized something about herself. She was selfish, jealous, dirty, sinful, and not at all put together. The only reason she thought she wasn’t dealing with much was because she wasn’t allowing herself to see her sin. She couldn’t see the blackness in her heart. She couldn’t see her pride or her brokenness.

So, instead of continuing to live in ignorance, she knew something had to be done. Her solution: pray that God would continue to open her eyes to the ugly, filthy sin in her life. She prayed that God would help her purge her heart, mind, body, and soul of all the worldliness she allowed to infiltrate and didn’t even realize.

The incredible thing was, as she prayed, she saw herself begin to clean up. She could see her soul being sanctified, dusted off, and cleansed. But the unfortunate thing is that the process hurt. It was painful to see her sinful nature despite all the blessings and goodness God granted her. How could she hurt her Maker like that? How could she treat him like that? How could she treat others like that? It hurt to see just how depraved she was.

This process brought the girl to her knees; it completely and utterly broke her. With nowhere else to run but to the arms of her Creator, she fell before him while he looked on with love. His cleansing, bittersweet breath rushed all around her, surrounding her with warmth, protection, assurance, hope, and love. She was being purified—washed, rinsed, and rung out. And it hurt; in fact, it was incredibly painful, but in the end, she knew the pain took her right where she needed to be. It led her back to her first and True love.

I’m sure you figured out fairly quickly that this girl happens to be me. This is the story of what I am dealing with right now. Why share it? Because this is how I process. I write, and I share. And as of now, God is still revealing my unrecognized (by me) sin, but it’s good. I can the proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel.” God is refining my faith. Being brought to my knees, with an ache in my soul, and tears streaming down my face, is not a bad thing. It’s where I find God.

One Moment

This doesn't rhyme, and it isn't all grammatically correct. I don't really know what you would classify this as, but I was journaling and it just kind of spilled onto the page. It's a little bit harder to share, since I don't usually share entries like this. But go ahead and have a look.

In one solitary moment, your whole world was rocked,
In one moment, your life was forever altered,
You weren’t quite sure what that meant yet,
But you knew, with your whole being—it was changed.

One of the loves of your life was lost,
You held as tight as you could,
But that solid grip was loosened by an inevitable event called death.
You frantically grasped for any life that was left,
But try as you might, the beloved life was gone.

You kept reaching and reaching,
But to no avail.
The realization came then,
A life-sucking blow,
You gasped for breath.

How could you go on living?
How could this be real?
How could this happen to you?
Tears were shed. Hands were held.

Everything you held dear in that clenched fist slipped right on through your fingers.
And even though his last words served to be extreme comfort in a dark time,
Your heart ached—for you, for your family, for your friends.
And it still aches. The pain is cutting, burning, to your very core,
Because in one single, dreadful moment, it all changed.
Everything. Changed.

But, my dearest friend, I have no doubt about this:
One day, even if you knew it all along,
You will realize the hope that is sitting right next to you.
Everything you have been longing for will fill your heart.

In one single moment, love will overwhelm you.
When you are at your rope’s end,
And you feel that you have called on your Savior
Too many times and He hasn’t come to the rescue.
It seems He has deserted you,
It is at this point, this single moment,
You will find yourself overwhelmed by His sweet, pure, unconditional, and unfailing love.

You will embrace it,
Laugh in it,
And weep over it.
Because it is all the comfort you have ever needed.

And this may happen numerous times, because we lose sight of what is important.
We lose sight of everything we need.
But when you are almost to the bottom of the pit,
And you are only longing for His love,
You will see him, and you will see that he's been there all along.

He will never desert you, though it feels like it at times,
In those times—it is really you who has deserted Him.
So though, that one single moment was something terribly awful,
And it brought you to your knees in desperation and despair,
You will encounter another single moment, in which your world will be rocked,
Again your knees will hit the ground, but this time,
You will be filled. Filled with love and hope and beauty.

How could there ever be beauty from this misery?
You will know, one day. You will know.
In one single, solitary, moment, you will know.
Love will rescue you, in one second.
That’s what it all comes down to,

Because there is love in every corner of our lives,
And it is shockingly obvious in those defining moments,
When you are vulnerable and honest,
That is when it all changes.

And that, my love, is when you will know,
What you have really known all along.
That is when it becomes reality.
In that one moment.
Hope. Love. Beauty.

Good

It’s a late night tonight. Actually it’s not that late, but I have an early morning class. I will regret staying up to write, when my alarm vibrates in my ears around six-forty five. But inspiration doesn’t happen every night.

Anyway, last Saturday, I woke up around nine. I had the room to myself, because my lovely roommate went home for the weekend. So, I took advantage of the solitude and pulled out that Bible that had become my textbook. I opened it to find wisdom, understanding, discernment, and love—not answers for an exam.

And as I finished up, an hour or so later, my heart was light. No, everything in my life was not fixed. No, everything I wept over was not “better.” But I did regain sight of what is most important. I did remember that God won’t give me anything I can’t handle; so whether or not that means I’ll be praying for the same problems to be fixed for the next thirty years, or the next three years, it will not kill me. God will not leave me; He is still listening.

I even prayed for some very specific things—things that I didn’t expect him to answer, necessarily. And I don’t know why I sometimes pray with that mindset. Why should I not expect God to answer my prayers? Sometimes I just forget that God only wants us to ask for things, and he will gladly give them to us. So I prayed for a few things—a job being one of them.

What do you know? That night I received a call from a lady about a part-time nanny job. I just laughed after I hung up the phone, and I thanked my good Lord. I had also prayed for something else that was answered tonight. And again, I am chuckling. It’s just ridiculous that I forget about God’s goodness.

I read a book called Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis for research writing last year, and it is one of the best fiction novels I have ever read. In the book, Psyche’s (Cupid and Psyche) ugly sister, Orual, does not believe the gods are good. She believes they are “out to get her.” If something good does happen to her, it is only because they are playing games with her; the moment she accepts the goodness, they will crush her happiness—they will strip her of any sort of joy she received from that which was “good.”

Unfortunately, sometimes I think this is how I feel. I feel as though good things will only happen so that something tragic can crush my soul, and God can test my faith.
And I know this stems from a couple rough years in a row. I’ve had to work through always anticipating receiving tragic phone calls and what not. I felt for so long that as soon as my heart began healing, it would suffer a life-sucking blow, and I would end up on my knees again—pleading for peace.

My view is that God tests me, then I grow in my relationship with him a little bit, but as soon as I’m strong again, he has to test me again. I don’t deserve goodness, so he won’t give it to me.

But that’s not true. I am his daughter, and he loves me in way I can never comprehend. He wants me to share in his goodness. Yes, he does in fact, test me, but those are the times when I am closest to him. And I have realized that when I am on my knees, those are the times when I feel his goodness the most.

God is good, always. It seems like a simple idea to grasp, but it’s taken me awhile. I am learning now, to be content with living my life one day at a time. If I am always afraid of what bad news I will hear next, I might miss some incredible opportunities to serve God. I might not hear him whispering his goodness in my ears. I might not see his goodness surrounding me—a pregnant woman, a sunset, a couple holding hands, a nice text or phone call…

God is good. If you’ve forgotten that, take a moment to look at what he’s brought you through in your life. The journey may have been difficult so far, but are you not still breathing? Are you not still loved by him?

Why did it take me 1.5 years to remember this?

A Beautiful (but easy?) Community.

I live in a community of lovers: lovers of people; lovers of Truth; lovers of purpose; lovers of life; and most of all, lovers of the Lord. We are lovers of the one who loved us first.

I’m sitting in the middle of downtown Chicago, yet I feel safe, protected, and loved. It’s because I am sitting in the middle of the plaza of my wonderful school—Moody Bible Institute. I love this place, and I am incredibly grateful that God brought me here.

Sometimes I feel a little bit guilty, because I feel like a lot of my high school years were wasted. I lived in a sheltered community for the most part. However, once I hit middle school, then high school, that “shelter” was mostly destroyed due to just growing up, I guess. Anyway, the reason I have felt guilty is because I didn’t do much with my faith during those years. Granted, my faith wasn’t actually real to me until my father died—unfortunately (quite the wake-up call). But before my faith came alive, I wasn’t burning with a desire to reach the lost. I didn’t have an unquenchable thirst for the Lord. My passion for serving God wasn’t overwhelmingly strong.

Sure, after youth group trips, camps, Wednesday nights, and events along those lines, I may have been “on fire for God” for a couple weeks or so. And yes, I volunteered for FCDC, I helped with food drives, I helped with the Christmas jubilee, and all those functions that make you feel good inside plus they look good on college applications. Living well, following rules, not having sex, legalistically praying/reading my Bible were what I did to affirm my salvation. Yes, I had already accepted Christ, and now I
was “living” for him.

But I wasn’t living for him. Aside from serving at various events, my faith was idle. Consequently, I feel as though I did nothing significant at NorthWood Middle school and High school. Maybe I reached a few people here and there or at least planted a seed in their hearts, but only God can know that. I can only hope and pray that those years weren’t completely and utterly fruitless.

Then, as many of you know, came the hardest moment of my life, which changed everything—including the acting out of my faith. Through mine and my friends’ trials over the next couple years God would transform my heart in incredible ways.

He transformed my apathetic faith into a fiery passion for offering his hope to the hopeless. And somehow, through a series of events, he brought me to Moody. So, now I’m at my second home, with people I love, awesome professors, and so many opportunities. But I’m surrounded by Christians. I don’t struggle with finding friends who don’t party; I don’t struggle with trying to spread the Gospel throughout campus; I don’t struggle with feeling safe, supported, and loved. From the day I arrived here, Moody has been a family to me. That’s just what Moody is—a family. It’s great to be surrounded with others who love the Lord and are giving up their lives to serve him, but when I hear about the difficulties my friends at other schools have with finding other Christians, finding solid friends, and what not, I can’t help but feel a little bit guilty.

I guess it’s just a motivation to make sure I get out and get involved. What good is my faith if I spend four years in a city filled with hopelessness, devastation, and lost souls, yet I only focus on my studies and hanging out with friends?

So, maybe my point of this is just a reflection of my recent thoughts, but I want to use this to encourage everyone to start doing something you are passionate about now. Find a ministry to volunteer with, work for, promote, etc. Pray about your desires, and move.

I live amongst believers—followers of Christ. I love them. They support me, and they love me. And they are an incredible gift from God, and they bless me in ways they may never even realize. But I can’t get comfortable just being around them all the time (which is all too easy to do). I have to mobilize and use what they teach me to reach those people who believe they have no hope—the ones who no longer dream.

God may not have me at a secular university where I can witness to the students on campus, but he has placed me in a city filled the lost and the searching. And maybe he blessed me with the opportunity to come to Moody so that I would have the support of these beautiful “Moody” people while we go out and serve the Lord together—while we go out and change the hearts of these Chicagoans together.

The Joyful, Bubbly, Beautiful, Passionate Heart of an Incredible Friend

I have a wonderful friend named Monica. She is one of the most amazing women I know, and I am forever grateful that God has blessed me with her. Mon has brought more joy to my life than I know how to say. When I look at Monica, I see a heart for serving God; I see a heart for loving those Jesus came to love. She loves the unloved.

Monica is joyful, bright, excited, passionate, comforting, faithful, strong, and loving. I could go on and on, but these are some attributes that stand out in my eyes. Us two have always been fairly similar in tastes as far as boys, clothes, and opinions. And we always have wonderful conversations about God and what he is doing in our lives/the lives around us.

Tonight, Monica told me about a website in which her pictures are posted from her recent trip to Indonesia. She posted some videos, and she may start writing on the website. Hearing her talk about the people she met, and seeing her excitement while showing me the pictures and videos just made me smile, inside and out. She brings happiness to my heart, and she doesn't even know it.

So, this post is a tribute to her. I don't know when she will read it, if she even does, but that doesn't matter. I just want the world (not that the whole world reads this!) to know what a great friend and person she is. I'm posting the link to the website she was talking about and a link to her blog. She's great. Pray for her and get to know her if you can. She is passionate about life and the Lord.

I love you, Monica!

http://summaonline.com/LETU/Demo/HandsOnLearning/MissionAviation/index.html

http://mlengacher.blogspot.com/

A Simple Thought

I was just reading a post by Piper about why God created song and poetry. He says, "...we need to remember that God is most glorified when he is affecting us, and not just known by us." I wish I had more time to elaborate, but I wish I had more time to write numerous other things as well. Suffice it to say, I think that quote is awesome. Knowing God is great, but interacting with him and letting him affect our everyday lives is incredible.

Proving What's True (Remix)

Okay, so this isn't really a remix. I was just browsing through old archives, and I found this post from awhile ago. It is one of my favorites, because it describes an extremely important experience in my life. So, I edited it a few sentences and words, but it is still almost exactly the same as the original. I just wanted to re-post it, because it's how I have been feeling. I have been meditating on just how True God's Love is, and how I can never understand that.

Here goes:
I go through phases with my music. I always have my favorites such as almost anything country, Anberlin, Staind, Lifehouse, Third Day, and Relient K...and a few others, but I go through phases with different bands, where I'll listen to only that band for weeks straight. And I listen to them until I discover a new band that is totally awesome. One of my most memorable phases was the Acceptance phase. Too bad they broke up.

Anyway, I recently had an internship with a good friend of mine. He graciously allowed me to invade his photography studio just so I could escape a few hours of the mundane routine of high school. It was really great, because I didn't have any classes I needed to take at this point. So I was and am very grateful to him. Anyway, during one of my last days there, we were listening to some awesome music...like usual, and I noticed that he had Sleeping At Last, and I was elated; "Oh my gosh, you know about Sleeping At Last??!" I exclaimed. So, we talked about how awesome they are, and then we resolved to listen to "Ghosts" by this phenomenal band.

As we listened, my heart melted. These guys know how to mix the sweetest melodies with the perfect metaphors and other language devices. While listening to “Ghosts” I was reminded of a past music phase I experienced that involved Sleeping At Last...that was definitely a good phase. And then I wondered why I ever stopped listening to them. So, as I was re-introduced to the depth and beauty of the music and lyrics this band produces, I knew I would be continuing a past phase. So, as my Emery phase ceased, I downloaded a large quantity of Sleeping At Last music.

Consequently, my mind has been enraptured by only the lyrics and melodies of one of the greatest bands of all time. I am listening to them even as I am writing this.

One more detail to help tell my tale: last night at Axis, my same friend that gave me the internship, was talking about the wind. And I didn't mention it to anyone, but I absolutely love the wind. I love the wind, because I always seem to find emotional and/or spiritual healing in it. I have had a number of experiences and encounters in the wind. And I know it's not coincidence, and I know my mind isn't making things up. I know what I feel. And when I feel the wind, I feel God. So, as I walked home from Axis last night, I lifted my hands to the sky, and blasted "Heaven Breaks" by Sleeping At Last, and I let the wind enfold me. I embraced it. My arms were covered in goose bumps. And my body shivered. But I knew what I was feeling. I was feeling Truth and Security and Love.

The lyrics to the song "Heaven Breaks" are some of my favorite. And I realized why last night. At one point the lead vocalist says, "Only Love proves to be the Truth." Could it be any simpler? People ask me why I believe in God, and I decided that from now on, I’ll tell them because He is the only One that has proven to be true. Some truths may exist in other religions, but none of their gods have ever actually proven themselves to be true to me. My God has; it's so simple. I believe what is true. I realize it's not that simple for others, because sometimes it’s difficult to get to the point where you believe God is the truth. But hearing those words and feeling the breeze rush around me...I knew the truth. And I still know it.

Though later on last night, I wept in anguish and desperation for my dad to be back on Earth, in our home, making my family complete. I begged God—for what seemed the ten billionth time—to let my dad hug me one more time. But even as I felt like the loneliest person on the earth, even as those tears streamed down my face, and even as my heart ached for one more warm embrace, one more breakfast, one more day of homemade pizza and Saturday snacks, one more talk on the phone, one more smile, one more: “I’m so proud of you, Kel,”—even as my heart broke every time I called out for my dad, and he didn’t answer me, even as I laid there in the dark, wishing for my heart to stop beating so I could join my daddy in utter bliss, and even as I concluded this pain would never leave me, I was crying out to my Lord. I wasn’t just crying for my pain—I was speaking with God in a more emotional manner. I was communicating with Him in the only way I could—by grieving and crying.

As I was yelling and crying and praying for God to sustain me and comfort me—to carry my pain away, to take me home, to bring my dad back, to do whatever He needed to do to make me stop aching—I suddenly closed my eyes. Then I opened them. No tears spilled forth. My heart was calm; my soul was content. I wasn’t overjoyed or happy, and I didn’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling. But my soul was content, and my heart wasn’t aching. And that’s when I knew I was experiencing God’s comfort more intimately than I ever had. Because it was so sudden—as soon as I let the anger flow out of me, and I asked Jesus to hold me, everything stilled, and I was filled with comfort. It rushed through my bones, and I couldn’t move. I know He has brought me comfort more times than I can count, but I have rarely felt it as boldly as this time. I was still hurting, and I still missed my dad, but God was answering my calls for comfort. I couldn’t believe it. What kind of love is that? I’m this selfish little girl, thinking I deserve to be comforted—thinking I deserve to have this pain taken away from me, when in reality, I don’t deserve anything. I don’t deserve God to come to me when I call Him, but yet, He does. He never fails, either. He always comes when I call Him, I just don’t always feel it as personally as I did last night. What the heck kind of love is that? How can I ever comprehend that? I can’t. Ever.

So, that line came back to me, “Only Love proves to be true.” Love proved it again. God proved it again. God’s love proved it. He is Love and He is true. God’s love is true. It has been proven to me over and over again. And I can hardly contain it. It has made me an unusually emotional person. When I feel the slightest bit of love from anyone, a friend, a grandparent, a sibling, a parent, a stranger, I just want to cry. Because what else can I do? I can’t thank anyone enough for their love. So I’ll just cry about it. Sounds good. It’s too great of a thing for me to express my gratitude for it in any other way.

I know this is already extensively long, but I want to talk about one more thing. In, “Heaven Breaks,” there is also a line that says, “When Heaven meets the earth, we will have no use for numbers to measure who we are and what we’re worth. When Heaven meets the earth, we will have no need for mirrors to tell us who to be and where we fit into this awkward point of view.” And I absolutely love this line, because I hate numbers. I hate math. I hate everything about it—exponential powers, logarithms, balancing algebraic equations—I’ve always despised it, and I’ve always been self-conscious of that. And although, the song is not talking about numbers in math, it’s talking about “numbers” with which we “measure ourselves and what we’re worth” to society and what not, still, to imagine a time when we will have no use for numbers, just makes me so overjoyed and excited. I can actually hardly describe it. And also to imagine a time when we won’t need mirrors to see if we are fitting in today, and what we need to change about ourselves, physically, emotionally, spiritually….is so comforting and reassuring. Anyway, that doesn’t really fit in with my whole love spiel, but I wanted to mention that.

I also want to say that everyone should listen to Sleeping At Last. My favorites are “Ghosts,” “Hold Still,” “Needle and Thread,” and “Heaven Breaks.”

So, those are my most recent thoughts. I hope some of this makes sense to somebody. I hope somebody can sort of understand—I hope I’m not crazy.

Mighty to Save

Recently, I went on a trip to the Philippine Islands. This trip was huge, in many ways, to me. First of all, I joined a team of 17 or so people that I had never met, except at the meetings. The last time I participated in something when I didn’t know a single person was in third grade—when I moved to Indiana. I was excited to form new relationships; however, I was slightly terrified. Dear goodness, I came away from the trip with amazing, new, solid friendships!! I love my trip companions with all of my heart, and I am extremely grateful for them. We shared stories, testimonies, worship, concerns, prayers, jokes, and so many fun experiences. But I could go on and on about them.

Second of all, it was my first trip overseas. And let me tell you, it was phenomenal. I loved every part of living in another culture—I didn’t even mind “showering” with a bucket of frigid, cold water! I loved the food; in fact, my next baking endeavor will be attempting to make delicious Pan De Sal. I definitely loved the sun, but most of all, I came away with a great love for the Filipino people.

The people. I love them. Most of me wishes I was still there, among the ones who stole my heart. These beautiful people blew my mind. The kids we worked with for VBS had next-to-nothing. They lived in the slums—much like the ones shown on Slumdog Millionaire (which is an incredible movie). Despite the lack of worldly possessions, the precious, adorable Filipino children came running, full force, to both VBS sites at which I served. However, they didn’t just come running; they came running with beautiful smiles stretching wide across their faces. And they came with open ears and hearts—ready to listen to us.

On the first Monday, after VBS, some of the team split up to go to different slum areas and pass out milk and vitamins and lead a Bible Study. My group that day was Ryan, Darice, and Dominique. Now, I had seen what the slums look liked from the outside, but going inside them was a completely different story. It was like walking into a cave of a massive number of complexly interconnected, tiny rooms. The rooms, which were actually “houses,” with approximately one whole family per room, spread forward, to the left, to the right, and upward. My heart broke. I was dumbstruck by the way those people have to live. And they actually pay for it. It is devastating. So, God did what I asked him to do—he broke me, by showing me devastation that I cannot understand. Now, what can he possibly teach me from that?
Torn between understanding that God has a reason for placing those people there and questioning him as to what in the world he is doing—I chose the latter. God, how in the world could you allow your created people to live like this? I could not understand—for the duration of both weeks. It is still hard for me to understand, but I will get to that, in a bit.

While there, I was able to share the Gospel with many kids, and some even accepted Christ. Hallelujah! Right? I should be ecstatic with that right there; however, I was worried. I was worried that after I left, the kids would forget what they learned; they would forget about Christ’s love for them despite their dire conditions; they would turn to worldly things; and they would not try to stay faithful God’s commands. After all, they are just kids. Will they even remember what we taught them?

Since being back, I had really been struggling with this concept. I felt that God showed me the desolation and devastation in these peoples’ lives, and he left it at that. My eyes were simply opened, but I hadn’t learned anything. In one of my classes, one of my professors asked me what I learned, and I didn’t really have an answer. I said that God had actually just done a lot of showing me things I never imagined. He opened my eyes to a real, existent, and distant world. As I didn’t want anyone to think I was a bad Christian for not learning anything—because of course, you have to learn something about God from everything—my safe answer was, “I am still processing most of what I saw.” But was I? Was I really processing what I saw, or was I still chewing on the fact that a Sovereign (keep in mind my usage of “sovereign” here) God would allow his children to live that way? I knew the truth.

So, feeling depressed because I wasn’t with those kids, making sure they stayed on the “Christian” track, and feeling a bit irritated with God and the way he works, my days after the trip were mundane and probably lacked a Christian attitude towards life.

Then, this past Tuesday, in chapel, we sang a song called, “Mighty to Save.” Most people know this song. It is completely overplayed in worship services, today; however, I still love it. I love it every time we sing it. So, naturally, my eyes lit up when I heard the band begin to play the intro to the song. As we sang it, all I wanted to do was stand at the top of a mountain and scream those words at the top of my lungs. My heart was pounding, and tears were trickling down my cheeks. Then, I thought about it: Do I really believe this? Do I really feel this way right now, that God can move the mountains, and that he is mighty to save? Or am I just caught up in the rapture of the moment? Am I just caught up in the power of the words combined with the music combined with the voices and the lifted hands?

As I pondered that for a short moment, I understood what God taught me from my trip to the Philippines. I hadn’t believed that God is mighty to save. I hadn’t believed that he can move the mountains, at least not after what I saw in Manila and Bulacan.

But at that moment, as we sang about how God is mighty to save, the light bulb lit up.
Now, I love imagery and lyrics that depict Christ conquering death, and the hope that Christians have because death has been defeated. So, my favorite thing about this song has always been the line, “He rose and conquered the grave.” But as I sang it this time, the line, “Savior, he can move the mountains; my God is mighty to save,” is what struck me. Sure, I have always loved that line, because of its truth, but this time it was true to me in a new way.

I realized right then, that God can move the mountains. God is, indeed, mighty to save. I taught those kids to the best of my ability. I prayed for wisdom when I taught them. I tried to show them Christ’s love as best as I could. And for the ones who got saved, I emphasized and emphasized that we need to continue a relationship with Christ after we are saved. And I explained different ways to do that. And now, I continue to pray for them. But that is all I can do right now. In fact, I cannot control whether or not they stray away from God; I cannot control whether or not they strive to live the “Christian life.” It is not up to me whether or not they develop and grow a relationship with Christ. I did what I could.

Now, I have to leave it up to God, which is exactly what I had been struggling with. But why should I struggle with that? Did I think God couldn’t handle it? Did I think he would forget about those kids?

Apparently, I did.

Singing that song, that I have sung countless times, I realized that what those kids do now is not up to me. And that drives me crazy that I can’t stay in control of the situation.

But if I believe in a God that can literally move the mountains with a word, with a breath, with a thought, how can I believe that he would forget about those people—let alone anyone? How can I sing that God is mighty to save, but yet not be able to entrust the lives of others to him? Why, on earth, would I ever believe that I could do a better job than God in helping those kids? I understand now, that God is indeed Sovereign enough to help those kids. He is, of course, mighty enough to save them. Never in a million years, does God actually need my help. He just chooses to use me.

So now, I understand that God showed me that devastation, those dire living conditions, I understand that he broke my heart, to teach me how to trust him again. But not only to trust him with my life; I needed to learn again that I am not in control, and I need to trust him with the lives of others. God is Sovereign, and he is mighty to save.

I can trust my feeble, weak self, or I can trust in a God that moves mountains. Wow.

A Call for Moments Not Forgotten

This past weekend, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine somewhere between two and five in the morning. We were sleeping in a dark and slightly frightening basement, so we talked until we were exhausted.

While we were talking, I mentioned that I really miss my dad. (Now I hate to make most of what I write about my dad, but bear with me; it is what consumes me right now.) I mentioned that it was only by God’s grace, and it was no coincidence that my dad called me at four in the afternoon the day he died. It was not a coincidence that I just happened to be home, and I just happened to decide to, for once in my life, pick up the home phone when it rang. Obviously, I did not know it would be our last conversation. It’s funny that our last conversation was about my dog and my favorite cookies—Black&White—my dad was bringing home for me.

For the past (almost) two years, I have looked at that last call, that last conversation as a blessing and a gift from God. If not for that call, I would not be able to remember the last conversation I had with my daddy. And I still do view it as a gift from God, but when my friend and I were talking, she pointed something else out to me that I had never before considered.
She said while it is obvious that God did allow me that phone call in order to have unforeseen closure and some last words I would vividly remember and hang onto for the rest of my life, maybe there is another reason I picked up the phone that day. Maybe God prompted my dad to call the home phone that day, while prompting me to answer the phone, to show that he was with me in that moment.

At times, it is easy to believe that God forgot about my family and I that night; it is easy to forget that he never leaves us, never forsakes us. It is easier to believe that my dad’s passing from this earth into heaven that day was a mistake, and his time was not, yet. It is incredibly easy to think that during the worst night of my life, God was not there, because he was busy helping others out elsewhere. And it does not seem like this would be a comforting feeling, but it is slightly comforting when you struggle back and forth with the idea that God did not prevent the death of your loved one.

My point is, that while it is easy to forget those things, I do know with my whole being that God did not leave me that night. My mother, my brothers, and I were not alone; my extended family, my dad’s friends, my friends—none of them were forsaken by God that night, nor ever. So, looking back, I can understand now that while the most important phone conversation of my life was partly for my closure, my own comfort, and for my future healing process, God was showing me that I was not alone. He never left my side. He did not forget for one second that my father would soon be home with him; God did not overlook the fact that March 15, 2007, would be the worst night of my life. He was not gone on a business trip; he was not checking his email; he was not too busy watching TV or too busy with anything at all. He was right there with me. All the proof I need is in that phone call (and I could say that for Scripture, too). When my dad called at four o’ clock in the afternoon that day, I had no idea what I would find out five and a half hours later, but God did.

He knew I would be devastated. He knew all along that I would be terrified, sick, heartbroken, angry, and in desperate need of my Heavenly Father. He never forgot about me for one nanosecond. He was right there next to me even before I knew what was going to happen. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a forgotten moment. It was God holding onto me when I thought I could never stand up again. It was God preparing me for my future, whatever that may hold.

That night was not forgotten.

The most important phone call in my life proves to me that God was there, in the unknown. He was there with me. He was there with my dad, in his last hours. He was there with my family. Technology may be a nuisance every now and then, and it may be taking over the world, but I am forever grateful for phones.

I know that. ☺

I am also forever grateful for my God, who never leaves me—or anyone.

I forever know and believe that with all of my heart.

Deliverance from My Worst Nightmare

The ground shakes, as the train roars above me. I am laying underneath a freight train, scared to death. My heart is pounding, and I know that I am dying. But suddenly, somehow, through the train, I see my dad pull up in his blue van. The van in which the Pepsi cans froze one winter, and then exploded--leaving brown spots all over the interior. I see my dad sprint towards me, and I know that he will save me.

"Kelly, Kelly, it's okay. It's okay." I hear a voice speaking softly, and I feel a hand stroking my hair. My eyes flutter open, and I see grass. Exhausted, I close my eyes again. I wonder why I am sleeping on grass. Didn't I go to sleep in my bed? Wait a minute, did I ever go to bed? Why am I wet and wrapped in a towel? My eyes open again, for an instant, and I see some of my friends running around. The soft voice is still assuring me that I am okay. The voice's hands are still stroking my hair. I am scared, but I feel some comfort. This is the weirdest dream I have ever had.

I open my eyes once more. Reality hits me. I am not dreaming. I am laying in a real yard, actually wet, really wrapped in a towel. I am cold; I see snow on the ground. My head aches, and I cannot understand what is happening. Terror consumes my body. The terror of the unknown, confusion, loneliness. I am wracked with fear, because I do not know what is real, and I cannot comprehend anything. I see some of my friends: Jess, Mo, Mike, and Alan. I see my brother and my father. I realize that Jessie's mom, Sue, is holding my head, speaking those soft, comforting words to me. I look around, terribly confused. I literally have no idea how I ended up in this situation.

"Kelly, it's okay. You had a seizure. You're okay, just relax." I had a seizure? Doesn't that mean there is something wrong with my brain? Do I have a tumor? Cancer? Will I die?

My eighth grade year, in November, I had a grand-mal seizure in my best friend's hot tub. From what they have told me, I made some odd movements, and then slid underwater. Fortunately, my friend, Alan, pulled me out of the water. Apparently, I was unconscious for about five long minutes. I can't remember a thing. All I know is that I had a dream of being run over by a train, and I woke up in Jessie's yard. A couple weeks later, I have another one in Mr. Hess's social studies class. I feel the exact same feelings. Except this time, when I came to consciousness, and I realize I what happened, I scream "No!!!" At least, I did in my head. I cried. I was put on medication this time, and I stayed on the medication until June before my senior year. I had been seizure-free the whole time, so my neurologist decided to take me off of the medication. I was stoked! They never did figure out why I had the seizures, which bothers me still, but the important thing was, I had been seizure free since I had the second one.

I was off the medicine, and still seizure-free, until June 2008. I was getting ready for my second day of work at Pet Supplies Plus. I woke up on the floor of my bathroom. I heard the radio, but again, I thought I was dreaming. Although, I did find it odd that I was sleeping in my bathroom. My eyes opened and closed a few times, then I realized I wasn't dreaming. It happened. I stood up, trembling and unable to think logically. My first thought was that I was late for work, so I hurredly began drying my hair, but then I stopped, because I realized I couldn't go to work if I had a seizure. But did I have a seizure? Maybe I just overslept. But that couldn't have happened, because I was on the bathroom floor. Well, maybe I am making up the "seizure," because I really did oversleep, and I needed an excuse of why I was late. I began drying my hair again. A few seconds later, I stopped. My thoughts were jumbled, and I was extremely disoriented. I had overslept; I didn't really wake up on the bathroom floor--I am just making that up. I turn on the dryer, but then I look down at the floor. Blood. I look in the mirror, and I see scratches on my face--bleeding. I look at my hands--scratched and bleeding. Suddenly, I realize my body is very sore.

I put the pieces together: blood, scratches, aching body, disorientation, bruises...I have felt this all before--when I had seizures. I begin to cry, and I call my mom. I frantically explain that I'm late for work, but I think I had a seizure; I woke up on the ground, and I am not really sure what is happening. She comes home right away, and a good friend rushes us to the hospital.

Suffice it to say, doctors still do not know what causes these seizures, but I am medicated once more--possibly for the rest of my life, according to my neurologist.

What's my point? I don't really have one. I just can't sleep right now, and it is because I keep imagining the times I wake up from the seizures. They are horrific memories to me. I cannot explain the fear and terror I feel when coming back to consciousness after having an "episode." I have certainly learned some lessons from having them, but they still make me shudder and shake with fear. The worst thing about them is that I cannot feel them approaching. So, at any moment, I know I am at risk of waking up on the ground...and feeling the exact same things I felt the other times. I am especially scared of the "train dream." I had it for the first two, but not the third. Many times, I live my day in fear of blacking out and waking up, completely confused. These are my nightmares, because every time I have them, I believe I am dreaming, only to awaken and realize the reality of the situation.

Again, I do not really have a point, but while writing this, I have made a correlation between a certain part of the "train dream" and my faith. While being run over by the train, I see my daddy come; he comes to rescue me. And I know without a doubt, that he will be successful in saving me.

I'm sure you can guess where I am headed with this. Not to be cliche, but in life, I experience many "trains." The "trains" in my life, are my struggles, my trials, my bad days, my pains, my fears, my hindrances, my failures, etc. But just like my earthly dad rescued me from the literal train in my dream, my Heavenly Father will rescue me from the metaphorical trains in my life.

He will rescue me from this blindness I feel about my future; He will rescue me from my fear of the unknown; He will rescue me from my pain, from my loneliness, from my sadness, from my aching heart, from all of it. He will rescue me from the swift and windy and angry currents caused by the roaring, rushing, rumbling train overhead. He will calm my screams into weeping into breathing--softly whispering, "It's okay, Kelly. It's okay, daughter." He will stroke my hair until my trembling ceases. And once again, he has rescued me.

How can I ever believe my God will not save me when I am in distress, when I cry out, when I feel lost? Maybe I won't feel him at first, but he often moves quietly in my life. I have always been utterly terrified of that "train dream." But now, now I see meaning. Now I see the way my Lord saves me. Now I see the purpose of my father and my Father. My Heavenly Father came to rescue me for all time. And he sent my earthly father to be a wonderful example of my Heavenly Father's role in my life. He sent me a beautiful example, and when that example, that wonderful man, my amazing father, was taken from me--serving to be my greatest trial of all so far, my Heavenly Father reminded me that he has rescued me, and he will always rescue me.

Terror, horror, fear, these things are all temporary, and they are all defeatable. There is salvation from all of them. Maybe there isn't anything wrong with my brain. Maybe I only had these seizures to illustrate the salvation of my Lord. Maybe it's both. Either way, God worked through my "episodes" and he rescued me from my great fear. He delivered me from the most real nightmare I have ever experienced.

Satisfaction in a Season of Silence

Searching, seeking, praying, wandering, looking, screaming….these words are what I would use to attempt to explain my current walk with God. I am searching for him; I am seeking him; I am praying for guidance; I am wandering; I am looking for him everywhere I can; I am screaming out to him for answers. However, I cannot scream any longer. I cannot search any longer. I cannot look any longer. These things only make me weary, and I experienced the effects of this weariness this past summer. I do not want to go there again. So, I have evaluated my efforts to hear God’s calling on my life, but not only my distant future. I want answers about the near future, like what to do during spring break, what classes to take, what PCM to change to, and what church to settle into as my home church. Anyhow, like I said, I needed to re-evaluate and figure out wherein the error lies.

When I was explaining my desperate situation to a good, (British) ☺ friend, I told her how I was earnestly and consistently praying about these issues. She listened intently like she does, and she replied to me, “Kel, I know you’ve been praying, but have you spent time listening?” Unfortunately, I could not respond with the most desirable answer. I had been praying, but I had certainly not been listening. I had never distinguished the two actions. And so, I decided to make an extra effort to listen to God.

Of course, I ran into a slight problem. I realized I don’t know how to listen to God. I close my eyes, and I attempt to clear my mind of every thing. Every single thing. Somehow, different voices always pop into my complicated and complex mind. I ask God to speak to me, and I hear one voice say something, so I ask, “God is that you or is that me?” And then I hear the opposite of what the other voice just said. Then, I ask the question again, and I hear the original answer. It is ridiculous. I know it is just my own mind conjuring ideas and responses up in my mind. I don’t know how to listen to God, and I don’t know how to hear God.

Granted, I have heard God pretty blatantly in my life...in his Creation, in music, in books, in movies, in conversations, in other people. I have heard him in those ways, but for the questions I am asking now, I have not heard anything concrete in any of those ways. And so, I have been trying to simply listen during the times I set aside to be alone with him. But, apparently, I don’t know how to listen. I am slightly ashamed to even be saying this. I have been a Christian for years, and I don’t know how to listen to and hear God in the silence? What is that? I should be much farther along than this.

Regardless of my shame or where I should be at this point in my faith, I am not hearing God. Possibly, I am not listening intently enough. Or maybe I am not seeking him as earnestly as I should. Or perhaps (and I am almost convinced of this), for some unknown and frustrating reason, God is choosing to be silent in my life. If this is the case, it really frustrates me, because it seems like when I am trying to learn how to listen to him and hear him, he should help me in the process of learning this essential piece of my faith, and speak to me.

So, what do I do? Because, honestly, it is breaking my heart. I want to hear from him. I want to have a more personal relationship with him, where I can hear him speak to me when I call him. I want to reach a higher level in my walk with him. But he chooses to be silent at the very time when I want to learn how to listen to him? Why?

No one can know. He is God. He is, “I AM.” Who can fight that? Who can argue with that? I know I can’t. So, I’m not questioning his plan for me. I’m not questioning his faithfulness and his love. I am only longing to hear from him, and it is frustrating me that I do not know how to listen to him, and that he is not helping me in this endeavor to better my faith. But moaning and groaning about it like I have been for the past six or seven paragraphs is not going to help me in any way.

This is what it comes down to for me right now, there is a song called, “Breathing” sung by who is only one of the GREATEST bands in history—Lifehouse. If you have never heard them, you have not lived. Anyway, one of the lines in the second verse goes like this:

I'm looking past the shadows
Of my mind into the truth and
I'm trying to identify
The voices in my head
God, which one's you?

This identifies how I feel. I am trying to figure out which voice is God, if he is even speaking to me at all. But then, the writer goes on to say this in the chorus:

‘Cause I am hanging on every word you’re saying,
And even if you don’t wanna speak tonight,
That’s alright, alright with me.
‘Cause I want nothing more
Than to sit outside Heaven’s door,
And listen to you breathing,
Is where I want to be.

So, as I listen to these beautiful lyrics, I picture the writer, on his knees, listening intently and desperately longing to hear God’s voice, yet to no avail. I feel the writer’s emptiness and anxiety in only…wanting…to hear God. That is all he wants. But since he cannot hear him, he will be content with “sitting outside Heaven’s door, and listen to you breathing.” He is okay with being near to God, whether or not he can actually feel God there with him in the silence or in the midst of other voices. And he is okay with just simply, listening to God’s breath. If he can’t hear God’s voice, whatever form God’s voice will take on in his mind, he can be satisfied with only hearing God breathe. I am there. Though I desperately want to hear God, and though I desperately want to know how to listen to him and hear him in return, I am okay with sitting near my Lord, and listening to his breath—whatever that may be. Maybe it is the wind, as cliché as that my sound. But really, it isn’t that cliché; I do believe that you can “hear” God or “feel” him in the wind. “Ruach” is the Hebrew word for “spirit,” “wind,” “breath,” and “air.” I believe that I have had encounters with the Holy Spirit through the wind. And maybe that was God’s “breath.” Or maybe hearing God “breathe” is just sitting back and knowing that he is near, and he is working. And somehow, he will make it clear to you what your next step is before you fail miserably. I can’t doubt God. And to expect him to speak to me in the silence just because I want to learn how to listen to him there, is to limit him. God is bigger than that. He is EVERYTHING.

The song then goes on to say:

I don’t want a thing from you,
Bet you’re tired of me waiting
For the scraps to fall off of your table to the ground,
I just want to be here now.

God has no obligation to speak to me. He has no obligation to love me or to do anything for me, so, even though I cannot hear him momentarily, I am still terribly grateful for the fact that he allows me to be near to him. He shares a relationship with me. And that is enough. He will take care of me. So, I’ll just sit under your table, God. I’ll sit here and wait for you. It is frustrating, but I know you will take care of me.

In conclusion, I still want to hear him speak to me. I want him to make these other voices in my head cease. I want his voice to echo through my mind and reverberate off the walls, and be so clear that there would be no ounce of doubt whether it was him or not. But what can I do? Nothing. He will speak to me however he wishes. And that is his perfect plan, and it is for my benefit. Thus, for as long as necessary, I will be content with being near him, only to hear him breathe. I will cease screaming and wandering and searching. I will continue to shake the other voices and attempt to listen and hear God. I trust that he is working and teaching me something. He is Faithful. He will speak. I will wait. And at least I get to wait with him sitting right next to me.

Love for the Ungrateful

So, one of the requirements as a student at Moody is attending a Practical Christian Ministry (PCM) once a week. You are only allowed one cut, with no make-ups required. If you cut again because of illness, you have to complete two make-ups. If you cut a second time for a reason other than sickness, you have to complete SEVEN make-ups. Moral of the story is: Don’t cut your PCM!

Anyway, choices for a PCM vary. You can tutor kids, work with the homeless, work with a youth group, serve at a church, the list continues. After your freshman year, you are even allowed to request your own PCM. My friend Katie and I are thinking about setting one up with a hospital where we can go spend time with terminally ill children. Anyway, when you are a freshman, the PCM office places you in your first PCM—you don’t get to choose. When I was told my PCM would be serving at a homeless shelter, I was ecstatic. I thought it would be awesome to minister to the homeless. It was exactly what I thought I would love. Boy, was I wrong.

To make a long story short, I basically show up at this homeless shelter, serve food, do dishes, sweep, mop, clean tables, and leave. The people that run the place—cooks, regular volunteers, employees, etc…are not very happy people, it seems. They are not mean, but they just don’t seem like the type of person that would serve at a soup kitchen. They don’t seem to have the volunteer’s heart. Also, the place just reeks. It smells like vomit mixed with rotten eggs or something. Fortunately, it only smells like that in the “dishes” room, and I haven’t been doing the dishes lately. Many of you know how sensitive I am to certain smells, though…how they make me gag uncontrollably and what not. Oh, and just a few weeks ago, as I was putting on my apron, what falls out of the pocket onto my clothes? A COCKROACH. I muted my disgust and initial urge to scream. I was mortified. I carefully checked the other pockets, but no roaches were to be found. Luckily. I check every week now. So, that gives you a slice of what this place is like. After my first two weeks, I had a terrible attitude. I dreaded going (I still don’t really look forward to going). So, I began to pray that God would change my heart for these people. I prayed that he would help me see their needs and just be able to serve them selflessly, no matter the circumstances. The more I prayed for God to change my heart, the more I felt like I needed to serve at the shelter.

Most of the families consist of a mother who is too young to have five kids, a father who doesn’t give a rip about his family, and kids who have no concept of what a family or what real love is. Many of the families are also single mothers, younger than me sometimes, with two to five kids. I’m guessing they probably all have different “baby daddies.” My heart breaks for these people. That is what kept me going back at first (that and the fact that I can’t change my PCM until next semester).

So, as I have dwelt on the bad attitudes of the regular workers, I began to realize that maybe their attitudes stem from the ungrateful people they serve every day. I mean, you would think the homeless people who come through the shelter are the richest, snobbiest people in the world. They act like the world is theirs; they act like they own the shelter; they act like nothing matters but them; they treat us like dirt. I was shocked. They have no right to treat me like that, when I am volunteering my time to come serve them every week! That is how I felt, initially. Seriously, these kids run around like they own the place; they throw all of their food and dishes on the floor. They scream; they demand more dessert; they demand tin foil and cups of ice and plastic bags. (I would like to say, there are some extremely grateful men and women there who thank us every week, and treat us with respect. I respect them greatly in return.) I would never hit a child, but more often than not, I just want to smack these kids and tell them to be more polite and thoughtful; however, they are not to blame for their behavior. But really, the cafeteria, after dinner is served, looks like all of the trays were piled with food, and then a tornado came through—leaving a mess of chili and rice, fruit and veggies, spilt milk, and plastic cups strewn all over the floor, tables, and chairs. The people don’t clean up after their kids or themselves. I loathe their ungratefulness.

I usually come out to wipe down the tables and sweep and mop the floor before many of them leave. As I walk around, taking my time so that I don’t have to do the dishes (hehe), sweeping torn Styrofoam cups, mounds of chili, fruit and cookies into the portable trash bin, thing (That was profound) they continue to scream profanely at each other, dropping more food on the ground—completely disregarding my attempts to clean their messes. Every time we make eye contact, I try my best to smile, but many times I found it terribly difficult.

Anyway, this is getting long, so I will cut to the chase. Last week, I was feeling nauseous and only wanted to get back to campus. I was moving slowly because of my upset stomach, and I was listening to a young husband getting all wound up about his wife who was upset about a sugar bowl or something. I never really got the gist of the story, but I do know that he was completely overreacting. I listened to him rant for about a half hour while I swept. I thought I was going to explode. However, I kept sweeping, taking deep breaths—attempting to prevent any vomit from coming up to say hello. I succeeded! ☺ While I walked down the aisles, moving chairs, and sweeping under tables, meditating on the peoples’ ungratefulness, I had an epiphany! I immediately felt disgust for my bad attitude, and my ill feelings for the homeless peoples’ attitudes.

What I realized is that the way these people treat me and the other volunteers and workers, while we are only there to serve them and provide them with food—essential to live—is basically the equivalent to how God is treated every day by his children. God provides us every single day and night, with what we need and more. He blesses us more than we know, every day. And what do I give him in return? Many times it’s, “Oh, I need to spend some time with God…but I also need to have this paper done by tomorrow morning…gosh I really shouldn’t have spent an hour on facebook and whatnot just now…hmm, well, I mean, my grades depend on this paper….so, I guess, ‘God, I promise I’ll set aside extra time for you tomorrow.’” Really, Kelly? I am really going to complain about these people, when I treat God so much worse? I serve these people because I have to, and because I care about a few of them. God provides me with what I need because of his unfathomable love for me. I have no right to claim his love for me. I have no right for him to call me his own. Yet, he does. I frequently compromise my time with him, but he continues to draw me back to himself and prove his love for me. He continually takes me back into his arms. And I continually fight my way out of his embrace, when in reality, his embrace is all I need.

So, where do I get off complaining about others’ ungratefulness for my service, when I ignore God's provision for me? It is my duty to serve others, just as Christ served us and paid our way to freedom. Whether people appreciate my service or not, I have to complete my work with a servant’s heart and a smile. God never denies us what we need. He is faithful. Sometimes, these people really hurt me, because of the way they look at me, when I am only trying to help them. How much more am I hurting my God? My God who sacrificed his ONLY son for me. My God who for some unknown reason, cares for and loves me like his own child. In fact, I am just that. I am his child. I hurt him and break his heart every day. And that, my friends, breaks my heart.

And so, just as he continues to love me, despite my ungratefulness, I am going to make a conscious effort to serve the homeless people out of selfless love. I want to serve them whether they appreciate it or not. Besides, you never know who is observing you, and I don’t want any of them to see a scowl on my face just because I am cleaning up their mess. I am there to serve them, under any circumstances. That is what I am called to do. That is what I am going to do. I love them despite their attitudes. When my dad would ask me to go do something for him, whether I would complain or not, he would say, "Kel, you have such a servant's heart." If I was complaining, he was being sarcastic--trying to make me laugh. If I completed my task cheerfully, he was being serious. I want to work cheerfully. I want to have a true servant's heart. And my heart is changed now. God answered my prayer, and at the same time he opened my eyes to the way I treat him. God, I am striving to serve you with a smile and good heart. I love my God, my faithful God.

Cease Striving (Psalm 46:10)

A year and a half ago, my young, healthy dad died from a heart attack. This past June, my best friend's (Kelsey) 23 (or 24?) year old brother was killed in Afghanistan. A few weeks ago, my uncle died. Last week, my old elementary school nurse, who has a son who is a junior in high school (and some other children...not sure how old they are) and was loved by the whole town died from cancer. Last Sunday night, my best friend's aunt, Lisa--who was also loved by the whole town, her family, and friends (And when my dad died, she basically held my mom together. She and her family helped us and blessed us in more ways than I can say.) died in her sleep. Can I even begin to say how weary I am of death and devastation?

I have spent all day today at Lisa's viewing. I arrived early, so that I could offer my services to the family the whole time. I wanted to be with my best friend--Monica--to comfort her through this time. I also just wanted to hug Lisa's daughters, knowing exactly how they felt. As soon as I entered the front doors of Wakarusa Missionary Church, my eyes welled up with tears. Pictures and videos were displayed along the line. As we moved along slowly, my heart broke more and more for this beloved family.

Lisa was a great woman of faith. She loved God with her whole being, and that was evident in her everyday life. She thought of others before herself. I remember right when my father passed, she and Jeff (her husband) took care of the big and the little things that my family and I were just too exhausted and sad to even think about doing. As time moved on, and the people in our house dwindled, and the cards, letters, flowers, and phone calls became less and less, Lisa and Jeff remained. Lisa would come to our house frequently to check up on my mom. She helped her, cared for her, loved her, supported her, reminded her of God's love, and encouraged her--all things with which I could not help my mother. I am forever blessed by and forever grateful for Lisa.

When I walked into the sanctuary today and saw Lisa in the casket, Jeff standing by her body, Chelsea and Cassie standing next to Jeff, I lost control. Tears streamed down my face, though I tried to blink them back into their ducts. I looked at Lisa's lifeless body, and my own body screamed inside, with rage, with sadness, with hurt, and with fear. What are you doing, God? Give me an answer.

Finally, it was my turn to face Jeff. I walked up to him, looking in his eyes, hating that this was happening to him. He is such a great, caring man. We wrapped our arms around each other, and I began to sob. I could not hold it back anymore. This should not be happening. His young, beautiful, Christian wife should not be in the casket next to us. Jeff spoke encouraging words to me, speaking about how our families were brought together for a reason, and now I can help his daughters. He said how much he loved my family, and I tried to respond. I kept choking on my words as I continued to weep. I felt like he should have been the one crying, and I the one encouraging him. I felt useless, helpless. Eventually, I choked out the words, "I...love...you...too. I'm...so sorry." My heart ached.

I moved down the line to Chelsea, Jeff and Lisa's eldest daughter. This girl, found her mother dead. She thought she was sleeping, so she tried to wake her, but to no avail. Let me tell you, I cannot imagine what that must have felt like. I cannot imagine the fear that gripped her heart and her soul. I held onto Chelsea as we both cried. I could only tell her I loved her, and she could call me anytime she needed to. What a lame condolence. You would think I should know the perfect thing to say, but I did not. I think it's because there is not really a "perfect" thing to say.

Anyway, I held onto Chelsea for awhile, then I hugged Cassie--the youngest daughter, a freshman in high school--and then I made my rounds to the rest of the extended family. That family is so important to me. Oh, how I love them. I watched countless people grieve tonight for a single woman. A single woman that made a vast difference in their lives, in this world. A single woman that made a vast difference in my life. We grieved. And watching others grieve only hurt me even more. My heart broke; my soul ached; my body weakened.

So, as I have been meditating on all of the death surrounding me, my friends, and my family, I search for answers. However, my brother told me the other night that I should not focus on finding meaning for tragedy, but I should just trust God. This was, surprisingly, the best thing anyone has told me in a long time. It seems so obvious and so simple, but it finally hit me in the face. Ever since my dad was ripped away from me, searching for answers has been my primary concern. I have experiences with God, and I try to use them to find meaning in death. However, I now realize that maybe those were his ways of reminding me that I need to trust his faithfulness.

Searching for answers is tiring, and I do not have the strength to do it any longer. It wears me out, and Satan attacks me at those moments. Those moments when I am empty, and I only want to give in to my fear and sadness. Though trusting God is not always easy, it is much less tiring, and much more comforting. And so, though I want answers, I am going to try my best to cease my efforts of finding answers. My effort now all goes towards giving God my trust. Psalm 46:10 is my new life verse.

So, God, I trust you. It hurts, and I ache, but I trust you. I trust you will bring goodness, you will bring healing, you will bring joy, you will always be faithful, and you will always love. I am weary of searching, and I give that to you. I trust you with my future. With my whole life. I. Trust. You.

"Cease striving, and know that I am God."
Psalm 46:10

Answer to My Quandary

I wanted to write a quick post informing you that my last post was silly. I was just being difficult...not wanting to believe that God as a Father would watch us hurt when he could prevent it.

I realized what I knew along. (I think I even mentioned it in the last post.) Who defines what a father is? God does. He was the original Father, and it is sin that has distorted humans views of what a "father" is to them.

I finally realized this when I thought about the church body being Christ's "bride." I thought, "Well, if I am questioning the way God loves us as a father, then I have to question the way he loves us as our "groom." Because a vast number of marriages are destroyed by the husband's uncaring attitude towards his wife. Women are beat, abused, neglected, used...etc."

But I know with my whole being that Christ would never treat us like that. Christ can claim us as his "bride," by being the "groom" that husbands are supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, due to sin, marriages fell far from what they were intended to be. However, that is not the type of "marriage" we are entering into with Christ. We are entering into the original type of "marriage" Christ wanted for all of us.

My point is, God created everything first. He had an original intent for everything he created, and because of our sin, we destroyed his good intents. So, he loves us as a father should, because he was the first father. He is the definition of a father. We can't create one according to our own standards, because God is. Everything. Including our father and including our "groom."

That's it. :) I have another blog coming in a few minutes. Slightly longer probably.