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.