I still don't really "get" it. I can't explain it to others who ask and I will be the first to admit to anyone that it doesn't make much sense to me. I have found a place on both sides of the fence at one time or another--the one which asks hard questions and believes the worst about the One who set it into motion and the one which asks hard questions and clings to the Truth, as is and as will be.

 I am always wondering when and how we are supposed to fight and simultaneously trust God's sovereignty. Sometimes the two seem mutually exclusive in my mind. Some days I wonder why the heck we put ourselves through chemotherapy if we trust Jesus and His good, pleasing, and perfect will. Other days I am knocking down doors and busting through road blocks because surely, this cannot be what God wanted.

I think I've been waiting to talk about this because I keep thinking that maybe next week I will grasp it a little bit better, or at least not swing so rapidly on the pendulum. It's true that nearly every time I open my Bible, The One Who Remains The Same changes, reworks, or expands my view on things that the day before I thought I might just have figured out. This conversation below is the one we have the most frequently. And most certainly, I will read another scripture tomorrow that tweaks what I understood to be true today, just a bit. The awesome thing is He never stops teaching and that HE Himself never changes -- so for that reason, I am writing.

In EMT school, after weeks of CPR training and testing, we were presented with the odds of CPR actually bringing people back to life. While difficult to measure, the statistics are surprisingly low--below 7% is a good guess. Some say as low as 1%. 

It was 12:15am and I was just getting ready to have my intern papers signed so I could leave--midnight had finally come. Now I was headed home to sleep for several hours before going back to school. The machines started beeping and the small, but sure, nurse began to shout out orders until the closest doctor arrived. A finger landed on me to begin chest compressions. It should have come as no surprise that standing over a real, warm, bare-chested human and putting my weight into the pursuit of pumping her body with blood, a job that intricately designed organs were meant for, would be quite different from my experiences with a plastic dummy. 

This woman beneath me, the one absorbing the forceful heart thrust I was delivering every second, was real and so was her daughter who was waiting outside the door. Forty two minutes later, her heart had shown no interest in re-programming and beginning again. The doctor called the time of death and I stepped down from the stool, my arms seemingly frozen in the position they'd held for those long, but fast-as-lightning, minutes. 

As I finally drove home from the ER, I was able to talk to a friend in a different time zone who was still awake. She asked me if I felt bad that the lady had still died. For some reason, I didn't really. Giving up a fight is always hard, but such solace comes when you can say with certainty that you did all you could. My role that night was small. As I physically begged this nameless woman's heart to kick back into gear, others worked furiously to provide adequate oxygen and intravenous epinephrine and atropine to give this woman her best chance of coming back to life.

Instead of going to class the next day, I went to get a massage in hopes of being able to use my upper body again someday. I have never been so sore in my entire life. I really did wonder if my shoulders would be stuck like this forever -- if I would always look like I was gripping reins while riding a horse. The pain felt good though, in a weird way. Even my body was crying out that "we tried, dadgumit, we tried."  Better than me, the doctor and nurses who didn't give up on a pulseless human for 42 minutes, knew the odds of bringing someone back to life. This was not their first cold body to cover--not their first tearful daughter to encounter with news she was praying against. But they fought. We fought hard. And then we trusted. Maybe the trusting should have preceded the fighting, but in the end, I know it was there.

We see it often in Scripture, the call to fight. "Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless." "Seek justice for the oppressed." "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves." Act, speak, seek, defend, stand, love -- we have a role in this fight, those words (and so many more!) are our proof. We are all called to a fight, all the while knowing true justice is not something we will see on this earth right now.

I am so results-focused. Quantifying successful loving has been a struggle for me since I started following Him. I want to win. I want to make a difference. I don't want to waste a second. I want my chest beating to bring life back and we want our banging on the doors of brothels to put little girls back into families and to reacquaint them with their innocence. We want our tears and our petitions and our time and our sacrifices to be rewarded with success. I do, at least. 

But the thing is, I don't think He really promises us quantifiable results or measurable success. At least not the kind I seek. He tells us to fight, undoubtedly. To stand with, to defend, to speak, to act... But He doesn't tell us this will end slavery or get the number of orphans in this world down to zero.  I don't think we're supposed to be so concerned with that, honestly.

I'm also starting to think He also doesn't always promise us the good, peaceful kind of sore that lingers to remind us we did all that we could do. If it comes, let me see it as a sweet, kind gift. If it doesn't come and I begin to demand it, maybe this has become far too much about me. Maybe He wants us to linger for a bit in that anxious "put me in the game, coach!" place of constant seeking and surrendering, offering (way too obnoxiously, perhaps) to be used if He will let us.

There are the things He doesn't promise us...and lots of times the sting is big. But the things He DOES promise us are good. So good. He tells us He will be with us. He tells us He will be Himself for us. He tells us that if we fight,“then [our] light will rise in the darkness, and [our] night will become like the noonday. The Lord will guide [us] always; he will satisfy [our] needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen [our] frame. [We] will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail."And if that's not enough, He tells us He is coming back for us and none of this crap that called us to a fight will even be worth comparing or remembering.

There are days I convince myself I am fighting alone. Many days, unfortunately. I ask Him why the little girl who always ran home from school to show me her A's is now the same girl who was pulled out of school and is being sold for sex instead. I ask Him why that boy has to confirm the scoffs of the "I told you so"ers and find himself back in jail, when it's impossible not to see he is the greatest victim. I ask Him why no one who has any kind of power seems to give a damn that orphans are being oppressed, right before our eyes. I ask Him why the lady who drops her handicapped sister off on the street every morning to beg for money is rolling in wealth while her sister is pushed lower to the ground every day. I ask Him why all of this medical knowledge, all of this gifting is reserved for the sick who are rich, while body bags are overflowing in the slums.

I have so many questions. I know He cares; I know I only care because He cares; so I cling to what I know of who He is and join the fight. The results are His, my only obligation is jumping in and trusting that He is good.

"The truth is we may never fully understand why God allows the suffering that devastates our lives. We may never find the right answers to how we'll dig ourselves out. There may not be any silver lining---especially not in the ways we'd like. But we don't need answers as much as we need God's presence in and through the suffering itself. Explanations, I've learned, are often a substitute for trust. For a believer, God's chief concern in your suffering is to be with you and be himself for you. And, in the end, we discover this really is enough." --Tullian Tchividjian

Living in Africa doesn't make you an awesome person

As a general rule, I've mostly found that people think you're an "awesome person" if you live in Africa. Especially if you live in the bush and poop in holes and sleep on thin mattresses and take baths in buckets... in the name of Jesus. Even more if you hang out with sick people or orphans or the poorest of poor. It makes me cringe from the inside out when this is put onto me (it's fine on the others, I even put it onto them along with everyone else) because I know what goes on in my heart and there is so so much that isn't awesome... but it probably doesn't show up very clearly in the pictures where I am snuggled up with brown orphans.

It was an act meant for good, without a doubt, but it watered the young seeds of some pretty ugly things in my heart. I think I was in 9th grade. I was a regular at church and Sunday School and Bible Studies for social reasons. It was fun and I loved the people and I was a generally nice person, so no one really looked twice in question of whether or not I 'belonged' there. It worked.

I will never forget it -- the Sunday School teacher came over and picked up my thick, colorful "Teen Study Bible" and held it up in front of the entire class. She said something along the lines of THIS type of Bible being the kind we should all have. THIS type of Bible was covered in stickers and doodlings (a result of extreme boredom and easy access to stickers during a Bible Study...). THIS type of Bible had wrinkled pages (a result of everything I touch being ruined within minutes... Homework, school books, etc just ask any teacher I ever had). THIS type of Bible had stains and rips and tears and unbound pages (again, I am mess. Lord only knows yogurt, rain, juice had soaked into the pages and by that point the mold was unhindered). THIS type of Bible was highlighted (because for the first couple of years of church, camp, Sunday school, etc I followed the rules and highlighted stuff they told me to highlight). THIS type of Bible was clearly and visibly well loved and we should all have Bibles that look like THIS.

My face flushed red--a common occurrence--but it was boiling hot in this instance because I was scared to death that she would ask my favorite verse, what I was learning in my non-existent "quiet time", or worse, a Bible trivia question to prove my alleged faithfulness to the Word of God. That would surely shut this party down. I knew the second she grabbed my Bible from my lap that this was now a lie I would have to work to defend. I was doing things right. I was someone who the others in my class should learn from. If she only knew...

My sins perhaps weren't the kind that necessitated being added to the email prayer list (Sally is drinking, I think. John smelled like pot once...so he is smoking pot. Amanda is probably anorexic. Sam is sleeping with his girlfriend, I'm pretty sure. Tommy loves the new Eminem CD, etc), but they were a plenty. The hidden kind are so often even more destructive than the exposed but what I was learning is that hiding sins and highlighting your Bible was all it really took.

I'm using this example because I have experienced how detrimental it is to keep your sin and struggles in the dark. To remain quiet, letting people keep on thinking that you are an "awesome person". I can recall precisely where I was when I first heard this truth come out of my CD player in downtown Athens :

“The best thing that could ever happen to you is that your sin would be literally exposed in the five-o’-clock news.  Your deepest, darkest, most embarrassing sin.  The one you work the hardest to hide, would be broadcast on the five-o’-clock news.  Best thing that would ever happen to you… Because I am so weary, I am so tired of having to hide my sin from people.  Of deceiving people about who I really am–I’m tired of it!” (Derek Webb)

I literally felt nauseous at the thought of my sinful heart bare naked before the world. It left me speechless. It even gave me nightmares. Holy crap, that would RUIN ME. Why? The answer scared me even more. I was letting people think I had things together and was living right because I could usually be counted on as a designated driver, kept my Bible on my nightstand, drug myself out of bed for church (most) Sundays, tried to be nice to strangers and smiled a lot.

I remember exactly where I sat as I heard my pastor in Athens say the words of Paul (in his own way that I don't recall) "a sinner, of whom I am the worst." What?! It stopped me in my tracks. I think it was my first Sunday at my new church in my new city. It was the most beautiful gospel message that I came to hear every Sunday. It was a message I desperately needed to hear every Sunday. It was a message I needed to preach to myself daily. If it was okay for my pastor to need Jesus this much, it was okay for me.

It changed absolutely everything for me. I am not sure it was truly the first time I heard it (from a pulpit or a church leader) or if it was just the first time God opened my ears to receive it. But it rocked me. So hard. For good. I don't know what I was or wasn't before, but now that I was beginning to see and hear and learn that being a Christian means quite the opposite of what I had previously thought -- I knew I was in this time around. He had me. I wanted to follow this guy who actually WANTS the people who don't (and will never quite) have their shit together, for lack of better words.

Anyway, if you think someone is awesome (for reasons other than NOT being awesome, but because of God's sweet grace) but you can't name the sins they struggle with then you probably need to get to know them better. Please, get to know me better than to think I am awesome. ((I know this is a laughable statement to my close family and friends who are well aware that I am anything but...yack it up, people.)) Get to know Katie Davis or even Mother (freakin? seemed right) Theresa better than to think they, as a single unit, are awesome. And if you want people to think you're awesome, you're certainly not alone. Talk to Jesus about that (it's a conversation we have often because being seen as an awesome person doesn't sound so bad sometimes).

I'm just saying maybe we need to start looking up to the people who straight up suck at most of the things Jesus asks us to do. The ones who bear fruit because they ABIDE not because they're good at what they do. The ones who actually, truly, deeply, wildly need His grace, they don't just know how to talk about it.

Some of these people are in Africa, no doubt. But a whole ton of them are getting a different kind of dirty in a different kind of war zone. Maybe there's is less glamorous to their facebook friends, but it's every bit as beautiful.

A God who is able

There is a reluctance, if I'm honest, to allow myself to dream for them; but don't earnest, shut-eyed prayers always lead to open-eyed dreaming? I have not found another way.

It was my turn to run the call and the seasoned paramedics snickered as we bumped along Cascade Road and arrived at our patient. He was a "frequent flier" as they call patients who too often find themselves hitching a ride to the Grady ER in the back of our ambulances. He had called 911 himself. He was high on cocaine and despite the paramedics eye rolls, he was telling us in his most serious tone that he was ready for this to be his last hit. He wanted to quit.

She shifted in her seat and looked me in the eyes, saying she was ready for a new life. She was tired of depending on her body to keep a roof over her family's head; her family that consists of children and their children. Her daughters scoffed in the seats behind us, two babies sitting on their laps. The next strip club we passed, one called out "Oh look! They're hiring! Hey mom, have you changed your mind yet?" They didn't believe her. Why should I?

Bundled up in a blanket she made with all of her spare time, she tells me about how she will live by the ocean with her sister and spend her days freelance writing. When her disability checks start coming in, life will be so different. She has been living in shelters for years now, but month after month shares visions of where she would like to be in just a few more weeks. Seeing her sit on the same bed week after week sends a tinge of pain as I realize her dreams are not coming true as quickly as she would like.

His voice was muffled as we sat separated by a wall of smudged plexiglass. I leaned hard into the phone receiver and willed my ears to make something of his hushed mumblings. Though I missed bits and pieces, his message was clear : he was falsely accused. Another man should be wearing this orange jumpsuit, not him. Isn't that what everyone says when courts are threatening to remove them from society to pay penance for a wrongful act?
I wasn't sure.

Her children are proof that she has not been attentive to their needs in a way that a mother must in order for little bodies to grow and thrive. The neighbors throw a hand in the air saying it is a tragedy that she was physically able to give birth to life. The nurse who examines the weak bodies sighs with anger and says she would love to give their mother a piece of her mind. The neglect is undeniable; no excuses of ignorance seem justified. She doesn't have much to say for herself.

The evidence is laid out before him and onlookers are quick to remind "once a street boy, always a street boy." He cannot be trusted and anyone who (ever) believed otherwise was just being foolish. He admits, finally, to the destruction he has caused and promises he won't let them down again. He begs forgiveness, it is granted, and the scene repeats itself just days later. His birth family has disowned him and his foster family is encouraged by others to do the same, being told that they have given it their best shot. Isn't there a time when it's appropriate to accept defeat? To throw in the towel?

These are just a few examples, but I think we run into these people every day. Hopefully more than running into them, we seek them out. Sometimes it hurts to dream for people when not many others are. When "wisdom" tells us they don't deserve our dreams, dreaming on says that we see them (or are straining to see them) as Jesus does. They need this. We need this.

We believe with the cracked out man because he needs someone to believe with him that even this can be overcome and we happen to know a God who can do big things like that without batting an eye.

We believe with the friend whose children called her bluff from the backseat because she needs someone to believe with her and we happen to know a God who can do big things like that without batting an eye.

We believe with the lady who dreams of a beautiful, less-dependent life outside of a women's shelter because she needs someone to believe with her and we happen to know a God who can do big things without batting an eye.

We believe with the huge man in orange whom I barely know-- not that he is innocent, who really cares?--but that this is not the end of his story, because he needs someone to believe with him and we happen to know a God who can do big things like that without batting an eye.

We believe with the woman who has truly sucked as a mother, but it doesn't have to be that way forever, because she needs someone to believe with her and we happen to know a God who can do big things like that without batting an eye.

We believe with the weary foster mom as she struggles through uncharted territory, as only few are brave enough to walk this path by choice, because she needs someone to believe with her and we happen to know a God who can do big things without batting an eye.

We don't have to believe with them because it is a safe bet or because the odds are in their favor or because they've proved themselves trustworthy or because they really seem to "want it". We can do all of that without Jesus--it is not so bold to walk a tightrope that is lying on the ground.

We can believe with them because of all that they are not. All that we are not. All that HE is is certainly enough for us to enter into their dreams.

Y'all. It's supposed to be us sitting beside the cracked out man as his body seeks to ruin him if he does not go back to the substance it has come to depend on. We are the ones who are Holy Spirit empowered to believe with someone who has only known one way of life that things can be different--that God is able. Is this not our own story of redemption?

When we're not all that impressed with what God can do, it shows.

It shows when I join the "encouragers" who pat her on the back and say she gave it her best shot, time to send him back to the streets because he has had about 7 trillion chances. It shows when I stare too long at the statistics on men who are released from prison actually staying out and living productive lives in society and throw some distinguishing water on the fiery dream that wishes things to be different, at least for him. It shows when I deceitfully nod my head and pat her on the back as she dreams of a different life, but cannot help but glare hopelessly at the seemingly permanent impression her body has made in the third bed on the second row of the shelter. It shows when I succumb to what I do not know about this man, accepting what has already been decided about him based on how many times a week he shares this same desire, only to be picked up again and dropped off at the ER for a repeat of the week before. It shows when the first time I hear she has gone back to what she knew, my frustration overcomes me and I deem her as a "lost cause" until she truly wants to change. It shows when I join them in anger (that seems so so warranted when innocent children are involved) and bash her further into the ground instead of seeing the tiny seedling of hope that might just sprout if nourished.

It can be a lonely place, the place that sits before Jesus and first believes He is able and then waits to see just how able He is. Sometimes the crowd is heavy in the beginning and usually it dwindles, maybe to the point of standing alone before Jesus, petitioning Him on behalf of someone that everyone else has given up on. They will disappoint. And if you're like me, you will disappoint yourself even more frequently than they disappoint you. But this is a blessed place. I want to find myself here more often. I want Him to increase my faith in Him so I can stand with them with complete and utter confidence that my God is the one who can move the ginormous mountain in front of them. They need us whose eyes have looked on Him, tasted His goodness, and been transformed into His likeness to believe with them that He is able. If we can't believe it, how can they?

"Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us, to Him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen." --Ephesians 3:20-21

Needy

They come in and out of the room and ask question after question and I repeat, for what seems like the 3 trillionth time, what little I know of his last six months and twenty three days on earth. I unload the broken pieces I know of his story and we work together to fill in the gaps. I catch myself saying words like "usually" when describing his habits and then realize I have only known him for two days--what do I know of his usually? I remind the doctors and nurses and nutritionists who probe me again and again that we are still nearly strangers.

He cries incessantly in the crowded waiting room and women look at me with eyes that will me to please, for everyone's remaining sanity, find a way to make the baby in my arms be quiet. Though our skin tells that I didn't birth him, they look to me as if I am the only one in the room with the ability to calm him. As he squirms and writhes in discomfort, I want to tell them that they are welcome to give it their best shot, because he doesn't yet know me from any of them.

I hold his abrupt entry into my life against him at times, sometimes wanting to cry back at him during especially public or drawn out meltdowns that "this isn't too fun for me either, kid." I get so frustrated with 10 little pounds of pure innocence when I want to get more than 45 minutes of sleep at a time. I question if this is really where I'm "called" to be if I have such a crappy attitude about it a good bit of the time. And then I go to the dark place of imagining Katie Davis, not only being super excited at the chance to love a sick baby all throughout the night, but also sharing her faith with the nurses and doctors and other patients in the ward (instead of the negative attitude and complaints of their negligence). Comparison kills.

All this to say, I am learning lately that there is nowhere I can go where I will need His grace any less. I seek out those places, in search of the "perfect fit" or "my calling" thinking that because of the way He made me, I certainly ought to need Him less there. Why haven't I landed in that place yet? I sigh and think "Man. I really thought I would be pretty good at loving sick kids. Guess I was wrong again.... Back to the drawing board."

Sometimes I just get tired of needing Him so damn much. Good Lord, can we not take off the training wheels yet?! I am familiar with this... I signed up for this! Why can't I fly solo here yet? Is it ever coming?! If not, am I in the wrong place? Why am I not more joyful in this moment? Why isn't this natural and beautiful and lovely and effortless and "like breathing" yet?

Because I am believing a lie.

I think I first heard it from Oprah when I was in High school and had more interest in what she said than what Jesus says. I even wrote it on one of my binders, I think. "Your true passion should feel like breathing; it's that natural." I think I've been looking for this dreamy place all along and to be honest, I have come up short every time--usually settling for the closest thing I can find and being annoyed that I can't just be naturally good (and independent) at anything.

I am coming to see there is no such place. Sure there is a place where my precise strengths and passions can combine to maximize the glory He receives as I live out life here on earth. These places exist for all of us, I know they do. We were not created each with different gifts and cares and loves to operate outside of the Body, to the benefit of the world (or ourselves, of course).

But where I've been so deceived is my thinking that these places will be natural and lovely and beautiful and effortless and maybe even easy. I believe Oprah a little too much and then get angry with myself when I am face to face with the seemingly ugly fact that nothing "good" I do will ever feel as effortless as breathing. Nothing "good" in me will ever be anything but that which He has done. Like Paul, "I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out." I just can't.

Guilt floods in about how I am failing Him by sucking so bad at loving people -- the people I have chosen to love, based on where I felt His nudges. The truth is I want to depend more on my strengths than on His grace. It feels safer there.

I promise that I love my life and the places He has me (((not even joking, this sentence was interrupted by the dreadful sound of projectile vomit being shot through the mesh walls of Isaac's pack n' play bed.... His only bed, now covered in vomit at the early hour of 11:36pm))). Haha, but really I do. There is a lot of hard (cue teeny tiny boy being waken from sleep vomiting the 7 different medicines he had to take tonight plus 2 whole bottles of Pediasure through both nose and mouth--did I mention he's malnourished and really really needs that food his body keeps rejecting? And those meds he can't keep down are supposed to be the ones fighting off all of the stuff that has been attacking his body for the past 7 months?), so I don't love it in the blissful skipping through fields way -- but I love it in the "holy crap. How in the world do I have the honor of being a part of the story God is writing for this boy He loves?" way.

All I'm saying is I don't think I have to turn in my resignation letter just because I literally have to pray the words "Jesus, help me not to hate this baby when he wakes me up in 30 minutes. And then again 45 later. And then again." as I lay my head on the pillow at night. I need that. He knows it better than anyone.

You don't have to question your entire marriage when you have to pray the words "God, please give me the grace to not punch this guy in the face tonight." We don't have to quit our jobs and search for something better just because we literally can't get through an hour without crying out "Lord, help me not to spit in my boss's face when he critiques my work for the 50th time today."

I'm famously bad at making up examples (which you know if we've ever had a conversation), but you get my point. Needing grace--being absolutely desperate for Him, having nothing of our own going for us is a beautiful place to be. It doesn't mean we are in the wrong place--it might just mean we're exactly where He wants us. I need to write that on my arm. It's good to need Him this much. It assaults my flesh in the best way.



"But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." --2 Corinthians 12:9

Answered Prayers

We prayed aloud as our far from 4-wheel drive sedan slowly crept along the rocky road. The car we had traveled in was not even close to being equipped for this journey, and the same glaring ill-equipment was heavy on my heart as well. So we prayed.

"God we love babies and we would be honored at the opportunity to love these twins in whatever way You allow us, but we don't want that to be the reason for anything. We believe and trust that You care for their best far more than we do, so lead us to Your will. Keep us from our own. We are yours. Use us as You see fit here, if at all. We trust you."

It was all that came out of my mouth because I didn't know what to pray for, I didn't know what to do, I didn't know what to expect, I didn't even know what to hope for.

As we left the house 15 minutes later--completely overwhelmed, empty-handed, eyes holding back tears, breath still lost--Sister Helen looked at me and said "wow. the prayers you just prayed have been answered!!" I looked at her in aggravated disbelief. Had I really prayed to see such a heartbreaking story unfold before our eyes? I pondered her comment for the rest of the day, as the faces of the twins and their brother raced through my mind every second of the 24 hours before we returned for them. I would never, ever have prayed or hoped for a situation so desperate to require immediate intervention like this. Never. If I had prayed for this (whether to fill our beautiful baby home, or to feel useful, or to become a temporary mama to gorgeous twin girls), God please forgive me.

It took several hours before one of my very favorite pieces of Scripture broke into my mind. I love it so much because I am simple-minded and this is about as clean-cut as it can get, yet I still forget it and am re-amazed constantly!

"This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. And if we know that he hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of him." --1 John 5:14-15

Praying for His will means being heard and His will being done means we get what we asked for, whatever it is. It's just easy. I love it. Sister Helen was right, God did answer our prayers. We prayed for His will to be done and that's where we are and man oh man, where else can I get confidence like that? Nowhere. When the "what the heck are we doing?" questions arise, a quick look up to the Leader of all of this brings solace. This is His thing, not ours. As we continue to ache for His will done, we have immeasurable confidence that it will be done and we get to go along for the ride.

Several days before we met the twins, I was reading Psalm 90:17. It led me to stop and take a painfully close look into my heart before I could even meditate on it. "Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish the work of our hands; yes, establish the work of our hands!" ~Psalm 90:17 Before I could pray it, I needed to confirm my hands were being directed by Him. Though I don't think He'd even answer the prayer of establishing the work of my hands if they are not working solely for His glory, it was something I had to get straight on before the same plea exited my own mouth. It has since become a daily prayer... a daily trust, rather. First, a prayer for His will to be done, for His glory--second, a trust that He will establish the work of our hands when these are our aims (and only then).

We can take heart in trusting He will establish the work of our hands when we are truly working for Him. I am so very thankful we are not in charge and that the work He has each of us in right now, He promises to make it count long after we are gone from this earth.

"Good men are anxious not to work in vain. They know that without the Lord they can do nothing, and therefore they cry to him for help in the work, for acceptance of their efforts, and for the establishment of their designs. The church as a whole earnestly desi

res that the hand of the Lord may so work with the hand of his people, that a substantial, yea, an eternal edifice to the praise and glory of God may be the result. We come and go, but the Lord's work abides. We are content to die, so long as Jesus lives and his kingdom grows. Since the Lord abides for ever the same, we trust our work in his hands, and feel that since it is far more his work than ours he will secure it immortality. When we have withered like grass, our holy service, like gold, silver, and precious stones, will survive the fire." --Charles Spurgeon

Bring on the ringworm

I was wearing a dress that was tooshort by Kenyan standards, but our walk was unexpected and it’s just too hotsometimes to dress conservatively when you aren't planning to leave the house. They called out to us andasked me in Swahili if I knew how to farm. It was a joke, obviously. Theylaughed, assuming I didn’t understand what they said; and because I don’t lovebeing the object of jokes unless I can join in the laughter, I took off my redleather ballet flats, waded through the freshly plowed field and picked upthe hoe. They held my baby as I swung with all my might and dug up fresh groundwhile we all laughed together at my skills (or lack thereof).

Caleb was wearing one of the shirtshe “came with.” I am not sure of it’s original color, but by now it holdsstains of every hue and the neck is stretched out so that one of his shoulderslays bare. I had meant to get rid of that shirt, but it somehow remained in hiswardrobe of bright, fresh blues and greens and reds. He greeted them with akindness that made time stand still for a moment as I looked on with pride.They were dirty. Their two children sat under the shade of a tree nearby. Thelittlest cried when I approached, as if I was dressed in a frightening costumeinstead of just the white skin I was born with.

I talked with the ladies who wereworking to feed their children while Caleb sat down in the pile of dirt rightbetween Kevin and Mateo, our new friends. I eventually sat down with him, afterthe laughs from all of the “mzungus are lazy jokes” had ceased. I had missedthis. I watched him gently run his fingers over Kevin’s head, covered in whitespots from a fungal infection that is pretty rampant among kids here in Kenya. Partof me wanted to pull his hand away because bringing an easily-spread fungusinto our house didn’t sound like a great idea. Not today. Instead I let hishand remain and felt an undeniable confirmation from the Holy Spirit that thisis good.

I suddenly found myself in someways wishing that Caleb’s pants had holes in them just like Kevin’s and hisface had a stream of thick, gunky snot like Mateo’s. I wished for a moment thathe smelled like soil and mold and old urine instead of Johnson’s Lavender babylotion and my perfume this fancy stuff called Febreeze.  I wanted to take off his shoes andremove the socks (that I had just previously replaced when he spilled porridgeon his others) so that he would be more of the same as these other two boys. Idon’t know that that is what the Lord would want, but I do know that He doesn’twant us covered in gold while our neighbors roll around in the mud. There ismiddle ground, there has to be.

One thing I pray for (without theexact words, oftentimes) is that my children will always run their fingers overfungus-covered heads, even when they know the risk. I pray that we pick up andcuddle babies who are soaked and soiled and stinking from no diaper with thesame ease we pick up the babies who are dressed neatly in a matching BabyGapensemble. I pray that we kiss our HIV+ brothers and sisters as long and hardand mushily as we kiss any of the others. I pray that we can forever squeezethrough the small entry and into the darkly lit, scrap-metal houses that areteeming with bugs to visit friends in the slums. I pray that when those mamasand their kids come over for chai later today after their long day of work, wetreat them as if they are queens and princes, because they are. And I pray thatit slowly becomes less forced or painstakingly intentional and more natural,like breathing. 

Yes, the freshly cleaned floorswill have red footprints when they enter and more when they leave and yes, someof their soil, sweat, susu (sorry, had to keep with the s’s…susu = peepee inSwahili) scent might linger on our couch for a couple of days and yes,sometimes we might even pick up some pretty nasty illnesses, but I need that.Caleb needs that. I think I will be prouder of my kids getting ringworm from ourfriends in the slums than I will be of my kids making honor roll.

 “So then you are no longer strangersand aliens, but you are fellow citizenswith the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation ofthe apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone, in whomthe whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in theLord. In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by theSpirit.” ~Ephesians 2:19-22

on loving HARD

I have been in this position before… it is not altogether new and uncharted territory for me. Being entrusted with a child for an unknown (but always sure to seem “too short”) amount of time, asked to love them with all I have (by the Lover Himself), filled with unequivocal joy during the loving, but then left with a deep, open wound (on top of other wounds that are still healing) when the subject of the loving is no longer present in my day-to-day. The loving never stops; the ability to love in flesh, unhindered, is just removed in some way and man, does it sting. To this day, they are still "orphans" as defined by the world. They still lack a mother.

            When the wounds are still fresh, I promise to never walk this road again. I will give my heart to no other transient visitors, only those who are sure to linger long enough to make the loving “worth it.” Carol. Pinky. Mercy. Obama. David. Abigail. I said “yes, God” to doing life forever with each and every one of them. Lots of times my “yes’s” were delayed or spoken through quivering lips, but they were all spoken aloud by His grace. 

            Sometimes I think that’s all He wants (our yes’s) and maybe that’s love, but when I’m hurting, it feels like a trick. Trick us into saying yes to hard things and then You’re not even going to follow through? My finite mind looks for someone to blame and He is the only one in the picture who is big enough to carry it.  I feel like the joke is on me sometimes. The Deceiver loves when I give these thoughts the time of day—He loves for me to doubt that God is working for my good--to think He is working for everybody else’s, at the expense of my own. 

Sometimes I feel like that. Could I simply be a sacrifice for someone else’s good? At first I’m indignant, but gradually that idea starts to sound good to my “leave it all on the field” personality. I can get on board with that. Let me die and let others live, somehow. But oh geez, that is not Jesus… He wants (and works hard for) MY good as much as He wants (and works hard for) the orphan’s good. And it’s all grace.

            This time is different from all in the past because this time I know what I am getting into. I know (and pray, in a weird conflict-of-interests kind of way) that Caleb and all the other babies who come through these doors, lay in my bed, and poop on my hands, will be removed from my life after a year or two—they will be entrusted to a new family who signs up to love them forever. Forever, forever. The thing is, I will do it. Happily! I want to do it. If Jesus said I could keep Caleb forever, I would without a doubt. What an honor. But He hasn’t said that yet, so I am asked to keep on loving and trusting He knows what He is doing here.

            I’m sure I’ve posted it before because it is probably the most solid, necessary-for-life wisdom I cling to, outside of straight Scripture. I need to read it almost every day to be reminded that I want this.

“There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal…We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as a way in which they should break, so be it.”~CS Lewis in the Four Loves

            I feel myself already, 10 short days in to loving Caleb, wanting to pull away to lessen the pain of giving him up someday. Loving him for 1-2 years and then passing him off to someone else, when I gladly say “yes” to forever, is sure to be painful. I could wrap my heart in a casket by remaining at arms-length with Caleb and all of the other babies who enter Neema House. That is exactly what I’d prescribe for myself if this was about me and what I'd consider my "best interest". I can even twist it in my mind and believe that the babies will attach better to their future mom or dad if we don’t let them attach to any of us—if we simply care for their physical needs and pass them around incessantly, letting them wait longer to find someone who has time to let them sleep on their chest or look into their eyes for more than a passing glance or learn the ridges in their hand.  That would be easier.

            But Jesus is and always will be so faithful it hurts. I tell Him why I want to give away less than all and He draws me in closer. He sweetly promises He will never run out, so I don’t need to be storing any away in case His well of goodness runs dry. He gives the love that is poured out and He reminds in the sweetest of ways to not let pebbles of self-defense block the raging-river flow of Love that He refills for this very purpose. He is the very SOURCE of the river and when we build up dams in our own strength, they are destroying us as much as they are starving the dry riverbed that is thirsting for nourishment.

            I don’t like talking about myself so much, especially the ugly stuff, but I just want to encourage and proclaim that God gives what we need. If you don’t believe that, try Him. People who aren’t doing it say that foster care is too hard. It would be hard on the family and hard on the child and hard hard hard. I would never ever try to convince someone it’s not, even in my small and different experience with it in Kenya. But what is so wrong with hard? Hard is close to the heart of Jesus. Hard is out of your own power and strength, completely empty save that of whatever Jesus gives. Hard is constant contact with your Savior because if He doesn’t come through, you’re literally done for.

            My point is it’s more than okay to get on board with trembling knees. Do we really trust Him? Not to carry us through once we’re in the muck, but to say “yes” to jumping in, whether the water is murky or not. I just pray for all of us that we fear being disobedient to His commands more than we fear affording a college education (what I hear so often in regards to not adopting), or future tears cried into a pillow (I'd love to skip that step by detaching myself from kids who will not be mine forever), or giving our hearts to people who can’t give their heart back to us (hmm, reminds me of Jesus a bit :)) or having absolutely no idea what we’re doing 23.9 hours of the day (welcome to my life).

            Lately I have been super encouraged by a family who is doing just that… They sign up for the “hard”, even as their wounds of past hards are still healing. They do it for Jesus and they believe He is enough—I know that because they’d be straight up drowning if they didn’t. I appreciate that they sought out the difficult in their own city and then went there… not on a bus once a month, they moved in and made it their home. I can’t speak for them, but I doubt they would tell anyone what they do is easy or painless. 

           I cannot say the same for myself either, but I know that sharing in Christ’s sufferings will forever be the greatest joy. So, we love on. We give it all and trust He will follow through. We let Him carry us through the inevitable joys right up into the point where it does hurt bad, and it’s there that we let Him hold us tighter than ever.