My Next Journey, Part 1: Stepping into Courage (Terrified)

I was a late swimmer. I loved the pool, as long as I could sit on the steps and cling to the side, thank you very much. By the time I was in second or third grade, I still refused to put my face in the water most of the time. My mom did what any wise parent would do and enrolled me in my fourth 77th swimming class. Slowly but surely, her patience and that of the instructors began to pay off. I finally got to the point where I could hold my own in a shallow pool of water, but there was still one obstacle: The Diving Board of Terror. I refused to even touch it with my toe. I thought I would drown if I went near it. One day, I nearly did.

They tricked me. The instructors were determined to get me over this last hurdle, so they told me they would walk to the end with me and lower me into the deep water. I nervously agreed and took that slow, terrified trudge to the end of the board.

I waited to be gently lowered into the water. Instead, I was jolted by a rough shove. I didn't have time to even take a big breath, and suddenly I was under water. It was deep, and I couldn't tell which way was up and which was down. None of my limbs touched a solid surface, and I seriously wondered if I would ever feel the ground under my feet again.

Of course, I didn't drown. And they probably didn't shove me as maliciously as my childish mind deduced. I sputtered my way to the surface, and upon urgently filling my lungs with air, realized that I was stronger than I thought. I could swim! I could really swim! In the deep end!

I don't remember ever being afraid of the pool again.

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I have alluded to big changes coming in my world, and I will share the specifics of those changes in due time. I have to go back a ways first, though, to that diving board moment so many years ago. You have to know this...As I continue to walk this journey out, it feels a little like walking to the end of that Diving Board of Terror and being pushed over the edge.

I want to be the one who looks up at the instructor with a grin before cannon-balling over the edge and glorying in the big splash that ripples from my weight hitting the water.

I want to be the one who is brave and fearless and full of gumption.

And maybe, just MAYBE I will get there one day. I pray my faith continues to increase as I come to know the Faithful One more intimately. But today.

Today I say, "I'm ready!" in a timid voice and inch my way to the end. Today, I squeeze my eyes shut and sometimes even imagine my demise. I know that when I get shoved off the end and take the plunge, I will briefly wonder which way is up and which way is down. I will wonder if I will make it.

But then I will swim.

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My dad was one of the most courageous people I ever knew. He never moved across the world, or stepped into physical danger to save someone else, or really did anything particularly remarkable. What he did do, though, was live missionally and purposefully in his context. Day after day, year after year. He was mocked and dismissed and did not, by any means, live an extravagant life. He would frequently say to me, "Ab, just show up. Half the battle is just showing up." And he did. He showed up, again and again and again. He showed up and he loved and served relentlessly.

As I leap jump dive fall into this next season that God has for me, I think about my dad a lot. I hear those words in my head every step of the way: "Ab, just show up."

Then I pray over and over again:

"Jesus, help me to trust you. Help me to trust you. Thank you for giving me beautiful examples of courage and faith in the people who surround me. Oh, and help me to trust you."

Or something like that.

When saying yes requires saying no....

This week, I have cried a lot of tears. My inner spirit has groaned as I have counted, over and over again, the cost of following Jesus into the unknown. This week, following Jesus is hard. While I would like to tell you I am handling it beautifully, I cannot hide the wrestling. So here it is...gut level honest. 

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There was a point in Jesus' life and ministry when he was mobbed by crowds and crowds of people following him. Interestingly enough, Jesus turns to the crowds, and rather than cheering them on and congratulating them for picking a worthy leader, he says:

"If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple" (Luke 14:26). He goes on to say that unless a person bears the weight of his own cross, a literal instrument of torture, he cannot be a disciple of Jesus. 

Interesting tactic for growing a ministry, eh? It seems as if Jesus is actually discouraging the crowds from following him...raising the bar so high that most will never reach the level of devotion he is demanding. And yet, we read these words today and rarely give them pause. 

Today, I pause. 

Hate my family? Hate my own life? What does that mean?! How?! I've heard plenty of sermons where it has been said, "Well, he is just drawing a drastic comparison...your devotion to Jesus should be so great that every other relationship in your life looks like hate." Peachy. And also very, very aloof and ethereal. I've never really understood how this is supposed to actually look in real life. Until this week. 

This week, I feel like I am hating my family. I feel like I am choosing to follow Jesus and it means that I sacrifice. A lot. But it also means my family and my friends and my coworkers and my church and my community also sacrifice and grieve and experience loss...because of me. Not because of their choosing. And this weight, this grappling with grief and loss and change, feels like a beam strapped to my back. It feels heavy and hard and unwieldy. Frankly, I would love to just ditch it. I would love to stay in my comfortable little tents of ease and familiarity and steady income. But today, following Jesus means tearing those tents down and trusting that I will still remain under the dome of God's refuge. 

In order to say yes to Jesus, I have to say no to a lot of other people. The "no" hurts, but it is necessary for the "yes" to come. So this week I say "no" with tears and groaning and heartache, knowing that Jesus is good and never asks from me what he has not already done himself. I carry this weight, and I lock eyes with the One who carried the weight of the world's pain and brokenness on his back all the way to his death and my resurrected life. Today, I stand apart from my tents, choosing to trust that no matter how hard and costly it is to follow Jesus, it is good because Jesus is good. And that is enough. 

On the Dropping of Nets

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the men who followed Jesus as his disciples. A few of them were fishermen...used to hard, dirty labor and the ups and downs of a fluctuating income. I imagine they spent their days looking for the next big catch, as their lives and families likely depended on it. And yet, in a miraculous turn of events, they BECAME "the next big catch." They woke up on what they thought would be another ordinary morning, dragging worn nets back to the boat and maybe hoping it would be a profitable day.  

Jesus often throws curveballs into the Gospel accounts and into our lives. One day, fishermen. The next day, fisher OF men. Two little letters and a world of difference. 

They dropped their nets and followed. No fanfare, no "season of transition and discernment," no lengthy goodbyes to the family and friends they were leaving. Jesus said, "Come," and they said, "Okay." They woke up fishermen and ended the day on a new journey as apprentices, students, disciples of this incredible and mysterious man named Jesus. All they did was say, "Okay."

I have to wonder what they were thinking as they walked away. Would they miss the feel of the heavy nets in their blister-worn hands? Would they miss working alongside their father? They dropped their nets, but they also had to let go of their families, their possessions, and maybe even the hopes and dreams sitting on the shelves of their hearts. 

If you have read the Gospels, you know they went on to live quite the adventure alongside this man named Jesus. All because they lived a life of dropping nets. In the future, those "nets" got bigger and bigger, but the practice of letting go of the small things probably prepared them for the bigger things. The dropping of stubborn pride. Of persistent jealousy. Of reliance on self. Of comfort and safety. The stripping away was just part of the journey, and it started the day they let go of their nets. 

I wonder...If Jesus said, "Come," would I drop my nets and follow, no questions asked? I am quick to resort to caution and the careful study of risks vs benefits. I want details and a plan. I am reluctant to release my nets, to leave family and stability and comfort. Even so, I long to be a net-dropper, to grow in trust and allow an "okay!" to fall off my lips a little easier. 

The disciples get a bad reputation for being, frankly, idiots. And sure, they go on to say and do some stupid things. At times, I can only read about their antics and questions and shake my head. Really, guys?!? But as I enter a season of net-dropping, I am challenged by their courage and sense of adventure, by their willingness to listen and obey quickly. I aspire to release my nets with as much ease and trust as they did. 

What nets do you need to let go of today? May we be quick to release the old (...traditions, prejudices, tired thought patterns, way of doing things, ambitions...) so we can quickly and eagerly step out on a new adventure. 

The Power of a Name

We were walking fast, eager to cradle steaming mugs of black coffee in our cold hands. It would have been easy to overlook her, a small figure hunched over against the wall and under the weight of the world. She looked old, but I doubt she is as old as she looks. The harshness of a world faced alone has a way of aging you, I think. She mumbled something about needing money for a cup of coffee. My friend and I walk right past her, but we glance at each other with the same plan in mind. Bringing this woman a cup of coffee seems the right thing to do when we are already intent on sipping our own. My friend splashes milk in the steaming paper cup and grabs packets of sugar in case the hunched-over-lady has a sweet tooth like mine. We push back through the crowd and extend the cup to her, a small offering when everything you own and all your hopes and dreams sit in a pack on the cold ground next to you. My mind spins with the questions. What good is a cup of coffee when you have no roof over your head and no light at the end of the tunnel that is your life? Who can really help this lady whose back is--both literally and figuratively--against a wall? There is a nudging deep inside my heart: Ask her what her name is. 

My dad was good at names. Or maybe it was more that he worked to be good at names. Every summer, he pored over yearbooks to learn the faces and corresponding names of the dozens of students who would fill the seats in his classroom come August. He would sit in bed at night and thumb through the pages of those yearbooks with one eye closed, the face he always made when he was concentrating intently on painting new information across the canvas of his memory. I could never guess how many hours of his life were dedicated to this task of knowing names and faces. It was always the same in public. We could hardly sit down in a restaurant before my dad would ask the waiter his question, the same one he asked every single time we dined out: "What is your name?" My dad took great care in the knowing of people, and he showed me the value in learning names. When you know someone's name, you can't just relegate them to the masses. Names whisper of stories, of hands held and hearts broken, of dreams fulfilled and longings still deep inside. Names mean something, and when you take time to learn a name, you acknowledge that the face and person behind that name mean something too. 

"What is your name?" I ask her. I guess my dad's practiced habit bled into my heart and mind at some point. "Michelle," she answers, and the rest pours out with it. She talks about getting out of prison four days earlier, and about her children (two sets of twins!) living several hours away. I can't attest to the truth of what she told us, but I can tell you that her face was painted on the canvas of my memory that day and her person gained color on the pages of my heart. Michelle. I think that's what she said. I whisper a prayer for her, that she would find life in the communion of knowing and being known by a God who also places great value in the knowing of names. I can only attempt to follow my dad's example of tattooing names on both heart and mind, but I have come to know a God who carves names (your name! my name!) into the very hands that cup the weight of our broken humanity. What intimacy! To be known--by name--by the God of the universe, to have your name carved into the hands of the same One. And to think that we have the ability to extend this same kind of intimacy to the broken world we inhabit. I do not do it perfectly, that is for sure, but I want to be a Name-Learner, to speak to people by name and hopefully point them to One who has their names carved not just in memory but in flesh as well.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands..." Isaiah 49:16

An empty crib and Mary's occupied womb: When life turns out differently than you had hoped

Right now, there is an empty crib in my bedroom, along with dozens of other unfulfilled wishes collecting dust in my heart. I am knocking on the door of 27 and life was supposed to look differently by now, at least the way I wrote it in my dreams. Married with at least one on the way? Perhaps. Or playing the role of "middle mom," rocking a precious child-born-of-another at midnight and whispering in her ear that she is safe? Glorious. At the very least, I should be righting wrongs and solving the world's most perplexing problems. Life was supposed to be different. 

Instead, I stare at an empty crib. Undoubtedly an odd thing for a single, childless, 26-year-old to have in her bedroom. It really was my crack at stealing the pen from God's hand. Maybe I can create on my own this story I thought I should be living, I said. Let's just say it didn't go as I expected. So I take inventory, counting the people in my life who seem to have found the corner on fulfilled dreams. Or at least, they have discovered MY dreams and are living them (whether or not they are one and the same as their own). I stare at December 25th on my calendar, another holiday to be spent single, childless, and not as I had imagined...how do I make sense of this? 

I think about her and wonder if we might have been friends. With the Expected One unexpectedly cradled in her womb, surely she felt the twinge of dreams shelved to gather dust. How old might she have been? A teenager, they say. Looking at the days and months ahead and perhaps marveling at how far they would extend beyond the storyline she had written for herself. Mother of a child conceived by the Spirit? Did she ever think, "This was not how I wrote the story?" Gone would be the traditional wedding ceremony, friends and family prepared to celebrate a new marriage. Life would never be simple. Did she mourn what could have been? 

We see the story differently, of course. We say, "What a privilege! To carry the Son of God in her womb!" Of course there would be hardship, for watching the child you raised be misunderstood, scorned, and ultimately slain on a cross could not have been an easy road to walk. But she spent years cradling Jesus, first in her womb, then her arms, and forever in her heart. A unique calling for a humble girl. What a privilege!

I think about her and wonder, though. When she "pondered all these things in her heart" (Luke 2:19), did she ever go back to that day the angel visited Nazareth with earth-altering news? To the minutes and hours before that announcement and the dreams that had captivated her heart once-upon-a-time? I can't know, but I wonder. We are told she was "troubled at his words" (Luke 1:29). But then, after Gabriel reveals the plan God has for her as the one to bear the Savior, she simply says, "I am willing to be used of the Lord. Let it happen to me as you have said" (Luke 1:38). 

This is the part that squeezes my heart. When Mary realizes the script is taking an unexpected turn, one that will no doubt bring misunderstanding and hardship and pain into her life (even if alongside honor and privilege), she simply hands the pen to God and says, "I am yours. Write the story as you wish." 

I look at the empty crib across the room, at a story that is so very different from the one I would have chosen, and I tremble in light of this question before me: How will I choose to respond when the story of my life takes a turn for the unexpected? Will I clutch the pen and cling to unfulfilled dreams? Or will I release the pen to the sovereign Author who promises to "finish the good work begun in me" (Philippians 1:6), to "work all things for the good of those who love God in accordance with God's will" (Romans 8:28), to   "never leave or forsake me" (Deuteronomy 31:6)? 

This story of my life is turning out differently than I had hoped, for sure, and there is grief to be had over dead dreams. But there is also indescribable joy as I discover new dreams, breathed into life by a God who pursues my soul on this unfolding journey. Tonight, I want to join Mary in handing over the pen and waiting with baited breath for the next page to be written. After all, God only writes page-turners. I think Mary might agree with me there. 

I Wonder: Ramblings on Friendship and Community

Just last night, a friend and I were reading about Dr. Patch Adams and his vision for a hospital built around the concept of life-giving friendships and community. In his presentation HERE, he mentions that most adults are unhappy with their lives, and suggests that a significant cure for what ails the human population might be intimacy and friendship.

This idea of healing community is one I have thought about a lot lately. In a nation where we value independence and material possessions over intimacy and vulnerability, is it any wonder our country is so divided? We spend more time in conversation ABOUT people, as if they are political "issues" to be solved, than in actually KNOWING people. Myself included.

My friend Rebecca* has taught me so much about community. I started spending time with her soon after she moved to town. She needed a ride to the store, so I picked her and her sweet little ones up and gave them a ride. One ride turned into another, and then another the next week. These "rides" have quickly become a ritual I look forward to every week. You see, she needed a ride, but I have gained a friend. Every week we laugh together, marveling over the silly antics of her kids and noticing how quickly they are changing and growing. She teaches me about the challenges of being a single mom, and I share stories from my childhood. She constantly amazes me with the way she fights for her little family. She is one of the strongest women I know, and I am starting to treasure our moments together. 

Rebecca has taught me about the necessity of community. In offering a ride, I gained a friend. We learned how to need each other. We need the opportunity to learn from the other and to grow together. We need a chance to build common experiences that will give us understanding and grace for the moments when we disagree or find we come from vastly different cultures. And is it any wonder? You and I were created for relationship. Relationship with each other and relationship with the God of the universe. Remember? "The Lord God said, 'It is not good for man to be alone'" (Genesis 2:18).

What would our community look like if we responded to needs with relationships? If we invited people to our tables and into our lives instead of dropping off food at the closest food pantry? 

How would my life be enriched if I intentionally built friendships with the very people I don't understand? 

How would our faith communities be enriched if we took church to the unchurched instead of expecting the unchurched to come and "fit in" among us? 

What would my neighborhood look like if I was vulnerable with my neighbors, sharing the joys and hardships of life instead of just a terse "hello!" as I rush back inside and lock my door?

I wonder. 

*Name changed.

Convicted to the Core

"Did you hear he died on Sunday?" My heart sank when I read the text message. A neighbor, gone suddenly and far too soon. A little one left without a daddy. My neighbor, guys. A neighbor I have spoken to but never pursued. The sort of neighbor you exchange casual hellos with but allow an instinctive suspicion and recognition of differences too numerous to count to build up the invisible divide between MY house and YOUR house.

I just finished writing a different post before I learned this tragic news. A post that confessed a lack of vulnerability and transparency on my part. People comment all the time on the ministry I have entered into, saying all sorts of positive, unmerited things about who I am. The truth? I am a mess, saved by the same God who chose to use the likes of David the adulterer and Rahab the prostitute to do the work of redemption. I am on a crazy journey that means I stumble and fall and make mistakes all the time, and hopefully learn a few things in the process. I long to share this journey openly, learning together WITH you what it means to practice the kind of hospitality that Jesus invites us to live out...an open-arms, pull-out-all-the-stops, love of strangers. The kind of hospitality that seeks to build friendships with those who are vastly different than I am. That seeks to KNOW and BE KNOWN, not so we can just  slap an easy checkmark next to the "service" box in our hearts and minds, because when I see it as "service," the divide that separates "us" from "them" grows.  Relentless, crazy hospitality that remembers that Jesus does not call us to comfort and safety, but to an upside down kingdom where we are to take up our crosses and follow him daily.

In the vein of being vulnerable and transparent, I have to tell you that the news I received today convicted me to the core. I spend so much time trying to "love and serve" others in my community, and yet here is a neighbor--a literal neighbor--I failed to invest in knowing. I encourage people to spend time and resources in opening their homes and lives to strangers, and yet I did not even know--really know--the man who lived next door to me. The whole starting close to home thing? Yeah, missed the mark on that one. Jesus is so gracious with me, but I am so broken over the missed opportunities, the times I chose to lower my head and quickly move about my way instead of engaging. The times I have chosen to stay in my comfy clothes in my cozy, safe little house instead of doing the work of knowing and pursuing the people who live RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I could easily write it off, but instead I am asking God to work on this lazy, selfish heart. I am sitting in this heart-deep conviction and asking hard questions of myself. Where do I need to adjust my priorities? What does it look like to step out of my comfort zone in my own neighborhood? Do I really care about my neighborhood? If so, does it show?

Today, I am bringing it all back to my street, to the people God has placed right next to me. Sometimes loving your neighbor looks like serving the marginalized on the other side of the world, and sometimes it means building friendships with your literal neighbors. Sometimes it feels easier to "love" those who are on the other side of town, or across oceans. Loving my literal next door neighbor? Well that takes intentionality, and patience, and a day-to-day selflessness that this girl needs to work on.