Twenty-Three Ideas For Chapters in a Book I Will Never Write

Live Recording of Poem

1. God, You say to be still and know you.

That you will fight for me, I need only be still.

But how do I manage this when all I seem to do is shake?

2. I am known for hiding behind crooked glasses, poorly timed humor,

Sitting at the foot of bookshelves and people, wondering about their stories.

Clinging to their words like others cling to hands, and for laughing louder than anyone else.. at my own jokes.

3. Sometimes we are all haunted houses.

With basements full of creeping things we’re too ashamed to speak of.

Creaking floors shouting out to be heard, tired of being tiptoed around.

Praying that our darkness will not scare away any who dare enter in.

But what is darkness to the one who spoke it into being?

4. I am a master at building walls, that all lean a little sideways.

Resurrecting makeshift shelters from dark humor and diversion tactics that look like I’m trying to land planes.

Apparently these walls must all be ice and igloos because I’m never really hidden, just cold.

But numbness is not my friend, or so I am learning.

It does not work for me. It works on me. Never making me look more like Jesus.

And I am learning daily that my walls are nothing in the calloused hands of the Master Carpenter.

5. Some nights I throw my purity ring across the room because even though I know I’ve been washed white as snow I feel anything but clean.

I may have thrown away the dresses that were deemed “asking for it” but I cannot take off my skin and the shame that whispers I am lacking just as loud as I’m sure some apple wielding serpent did years and years ago.

6. Your emotions do not determine your level of trust in God.

7. Sometimes the word no is like a flock of sheep I count repeatedly, trying to convince myself I am safe enough to fall asleep.

No. No. No.

I know it doesn’t matter how many times I say this, I don’t really rest, and I don’t feel any safer.

Because there are men who won’t just compare your body to a toothpick, but try to place you between their teeth for safe keeping.

Because there are days it feels like you need a search party to be sent out to find your own voice.

Because tragedy and silence are roommates.

Because sometimes nightmares have hands like extensions of stomachs that are never satisfied.

This is not to say that all men are hungry. Or hunting.

Just that a person is not a snack.

8. There are days where I feel like the universe believes I am a magic eight ball.

As though, if I am shaken long enough, maybe the answers to all of the questions I am not entitled to will come tumbling out instead of tears.

Or awkward hand movements.

9. A short list of things the church won’t talk about:

-Assault.

-The fact that porn is a soul and sin problem, not solely a men problem.

-That a woman can be more than an embodiment of proverbs 31 or a children’s minister.

10. This is how I fight; poetry.

Because I think in metaphors, song lyrics, dad jokes, and movie quotes and good grief, words are hard.

Because I say “I’m thankful for you” rather than saying “I love you.”

Because some days I cannot seem to find the bright side even with the sun right outside my window.

But knowing it’s there and feeling it are not one and the same.

And hurting is different than wanting to hurt myself.

Now, I write the word “enough” on my hip instead of painting them black and blue like I used to.

Because when people ask me how I’m feeling, the words to name emotions get lost somewhere inside of the drowning mess of my mind and as those floodgates open they’re all replaced with the word “used.”

11. Being broken doesn’t mean you are worthless. It just means there are more pieces to work with.

Even if the plenty came from shattering.

You can be loved back together again.

So call me a puzzle and mind the sharp edges, please.

Also, watch where you step, I left a pile of my self confidence on the floor next to the sweatpants I put on as soon as I walk in the door, right between some dirty socks and daydreams I haven’t convinced myself to pick up yet.

12. Scars tell stories, but they do not give names.

I’m trying.

They’re called panic attacks for a reason.

I am fighting.

Even in my silence and shaking, even when I feel like shrinking into corners and myself.

If anxiety is the thorn in my side to make me more dependent upon You, Lord, I will fight from my knees.

Remind me to thank you later.

13. People need to feel loved and know they are enough more than your heart needs to feel safe.

Lord, help me unlearn how to be tough.

To see my own vulnerability as beautiful as I do others.

14. I feel like a hypocrite as I tell my girls they are beautiful and that worth cannot be measured in numbers,

But I keep the scale I was given for my 20th birthday hidden under my bed.

You see, I’m used to telling people my super power is invisibility.

Because it is still so easy to push away a plate in an effort to disappear.

To waste away for a waist line.

But friends, what good are thighs that do not touch if the rest of me does not act as the hands and feet of Christ?

Why don’t we praise our bodies for holding the weight of ourselves, instead of picking them apart for having too much of it.

15. Sometimes I am the trigger on my own gun.

When I sing “whom shall I fear” my brain responds with a very long list of whoms, and what’s.

And it’s not the what could happens running rampant, but the what already did.

Maybe I’m alone in this, but when it comes to my circumstances I think I pray for delivery before I pray for your glory, Lord.

And even more?

I often find it hard to align the belief that God has a future AND a hope for me.

So sometimes we just sing until we believe.

16. I’ve been thinking a lot about drowning lately.

And no, I’m not going to hurt myself. (Shout out to my counselor standing in the crowd like I wish I was)

But I’ve been learning I don’t need to be in a body of water for my head to feel completely submerged. I just want air. To not feel sea sick on land.

To remember in my sinking that I serve a God who walks on water when the storms seem blinding-

He still finds me.

17. Note to self:

You didn’t clumsily crash into a domino that made all of this happen just by existing.

Even when you don’t believe it repeat the mantra that this is not your fault.

And I know you don’t believe it. That there are things you wish were different.

But you cannot try to turn yourself inside out in the hope that someone else might finally see you standing there, knees knocking.

A home, not a hotel.

18. I leave notes on my mirror filled with truth I long to fill myself with.. but I can never stand to look at my reflection long enough to take in the ink.

I don’t know if I am more afraid of what I might see, or what I might not.

Most of the time I see a natural disaster. Not a master piece.

Earthquakes for legs.

A brain prone to flash flooding,

And a heart at home in a drought, dusty and cracked, just striving to hold together for one

more

beat.

19. You cannot fight what you will not name.

As much as fear wants to claw its way out from the pit of your stomach and steal your words right out of your throat, speak it anyways.

Even if it starts as a whisper.

20. I’d rather believe that I am efficient than that I am enough.

I would rather make things happen than be the one to which things happen.

Maybe this is why I made an “unnecessary apology jar.”

Because I know this is DBU, but I’d rather hear a curse word than someone invalidate their existence with an “I’m sorry,” as though who they are is not worth their breath.

Stop apologizing for taking up space.

You are enough.

We are told to love our neighbors as ourselves, but how many of you would use a different four letter word to describe your feelings for yourself?

And honestly, we’re all kind of messed up, striving after our own thirty pieces of silver and creating gods kept hidden up our sleeves that are not God.

But God doesn’t want to fix you. He wants to make you new.

Do not let the voice of shame continue to weave lies into a noose he is crafting for your own neck.

You are enough.

21. Out of the depths of the heart of people comes one word: regret.

Out of the depths of the heart of God comes one reply: forgiveness.

22. When I feel most destructive, I have to remind myself to create.

To call forth beauty from places it was not seen before.

Even if that means within myself.

23. By now some of you may recognize me as the weird girl who likes to high five stop signs.

You should know this obsession began as I was training for a half marathon last year.

I would hit the word stop to remind myself not to.

I continued because I realized if I was to truly run this race with perseverance I needed to hear this daily.

Don’t stop.

Don’t stop.

Because learning to fight for yourself instead of against yourself is one of the hardest things you will ever do.

Please.

Don’t stop.

Just because the bones that encase it are called so, you cannot cage your heart. It deserves to beat. To fight. To be loved.

You’re alive. Act like it.

And don’t stop.

Gethsemane

Father, I know these palms could encompass the entire earth.

That the cracks are as full of life as the rivers and valleys they finger-tipped into existence.

I know this.

But my hands feel incredibly empty.

More so than I know they will feel once the nails that will be driven into them are removed.

A holy God wholly man and riddled with holes leaking out fear unto this garden floor willing wildflowers to grow from this sorrow I call my cup.

This cup of bitter agony poured out for me.

For us.

 

You call your creation Masterpiece. A work of art.

And Father, Your glory is worth showing off.

Perfect things deserve to be on display. What better canvas than a cross painted red with blood?

 

On my knees I know You haven’t left me;

But all these eyes can see is the ground this body will soon be calling home.

Father, won’t you call me home?

 

I am not afraid of death.

The cessation of breathing is just a pause in the rising and falling of this chest.

I remember when we breathed into a cavern of a man in Eden to begin all of this.

And I regret nothing.

Breath has always been meant to be spent glorifying You.

What an honor to use the last of mine this way.

I am not afraid of death.

What my heart rate rises at is the knowledge of what must be carried to the wooden bridge they will call my throne.

Of the depth of the chasm between You and our Children that I must become.

Their sin, yes.

Thrown as far as the East is from the West and maybe that is why my chest feels as though it’s being torn apart.

Yes, their sin.

The things they name themselves by instead of our Children, call themselves dark for.

Even though darkness is as Light to us.

But Father, their sorrow.

The weight of every thing that will ever bring them down.

I am to be stripped down to nothing but blood and bone and take on every broken thing that leaves them bleeding from the inside out.

And I will.

YOUR will be done. Not mine.

 

Mine are these questions.

And the answers.

And really it’s The Answer who’s been holding me, and which I will become as I hear our children cry:

“How will I ever be enough?”

 

When Abraham led Isaac up the Mountain to be a sacrifice you provided a ram.

You see I’m not asking You if You can do something You have never done before.

I’m just making sure the bleating and bleeding must be my own.

I’m just wondering if this is truly the way You want to write Our story.

 

A scarlet cord in a broken windowsill once spared a prostitute in a fallen city.

Now all of the fallen cities that are men with hearts like whores may look out of their windowpanes and see the discord of scarlet and broken flesh I will become to spare them.

I love them.

 

I can calm storms with just an utterance from these lips of mine,

Walk on waters with the tips of my toes,

I know this.

I have seen it with my own eyes.

I have tasted the salt and felt the thunder within men as they tremble.

I know this.

But Father, I am drowning in my head and all of my fear is forming drops on my forehead.

I wipe red from my brow like Our people wiped the blood of a lamb across their doorposts at Passover.

If this cup cannot also pass from me then I will pass over this life to you.

The body you crafted for it cannot endure much more.

But Love will endure all things.

 

Abba- Where are you?

What is infinite power in a finite body?

What is this flesh but just words?

How does a God that does not delay just be still?

 

I am a Master Carpenter.

These hands know callouses the same way they know the Universe.

There is irony in the ways I know how to create a cross soundly.

I know every piece and it’s purpose; As well as the ones who will hang me there.

Through the gates I see their torches and the fire in their eyes.

I am the monster that must be slain in their mirrors so they can sleep peacefully. I know the hairs on their heads and I was with You Father as we knit them together in their mother’s wombs.

It is their sins- this sin- I will carry on that cross, too.

And I love them.

I love them.

M.G.R.

What’s your story?

“You inspired me to write.”

This is why I teach:
At the beginning of my presentation tonight I asked my classmates, all older than me with much more experience and many more hours in the classroom, what they thought of when I said “writer.”
Somebody mentions J. K. Rowling. Another described an old man with wire rimmed glasses sitting alone in the corner of a coffee shop. 
Not one of them thought of or described themselves. 

My response?
You all have a story to tell. Therefore you are all writers.
At a concert I went to in March the lead singer was asked how to write a song. The response was this: “Start with darkness and aim for the light.”
You are a writer. 

What you have to say matters. 

Who ever told you that it didn’t? They’re wrong. Even if that voice sounds a heck of a lot like your own. It’s wrong. 

Connection is why we are here. Someone needs to know that they are not alone and you have the ability to say to them “me, too.” 
“If you don’t own your story you can never be free from it.”
What’s your story?

I asked them questions about what matters to them and why, who they are, what they love, and what they’ve been through that has made them into the people they are. They wrote this down timidly. Some even ventured to share. 
I introduced the concept of the six word memoir. These are exactly what they sound like: a story in six words. This started when Ernest Hemingway was challenged to do just that. Use six words to write a story. So he did. 
“For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”
That hurts. It’s not nice or happy. This is not beautiful. It’s kind of dark, honestly. But art isn’t supposed to be beautiful, it’s supposed to make you feel something. 
I passed out slips of paper with six word memoirs on them. I asked the people sitting before me to pick their favorite. Pick one that made them feel something. That they can connect with. I then asked them to share. 

Some of their favorites included:
“Some days my legs are earthquakes.”

“Some things need to be wrecked.”

“God always wins hide and seek.”

“Picked my daydreams off the floor.”

“No matter the wreckage; you’re loved.”

“Sometimes there’s poetry in the panic.”

“Teachers have so much to learn.”
Hearing what words resonated with them was enlightening and inspiring for me as a teacher. It gave me a glimpse into who they are as individuals. It was beautiful. It was real. 
Not once did I say, “tell me why you picked the one you did.” But one by one, students read aloud the memoir of their choosing and then shared how they connected with the ink on that paper. Because I promise you, I promise: connection is why we are here. Sometimes we do not have the words we need, but someone else might. 
Then it was their turn. Using the examples before them I asked each person in that classroom to write their own. To write their story. Write something that is real. In the honor or modeling what you teach, I shared a secret.. every six word memoir that they had read was written by me. And surely, if I could do this, so could they. 
Tonight, a room of strangers chose vulnerability and courage. They chose to share their stories and what makes them real. 

Tonight, a room of adults told me, a fresh from college twenty-two year old that they were not writers. That they had nothing to say. 

Tonight, they proved themselves wrong. 

And it only took six words. 
C. S. Lewis said, “We read to know that we are not alone.”
What if your story is the one that someone else needs to read in order to know that they’re not alone? How powerful is that?

How powerful could your story be?

Please, pick up a pen. 

Write.

Celebrate.

I went to the gym today. 

Not because I thought I had to.

Not as punishment.

Not to earn a “cheat” meal.

Not because I had Whataburger AND ice cream last night. (And might I add, it was glorious.)

 

I went to the gym today to celebrate what my body could do.
I walked in and went to the bike with a book (yes, I am that person) to warm up. I began to pedal and turn pages. My eyes did not want to stay on the words, though. They wanted to wander to all of the reasons I was not worthy to be there. I took a breath, and looked at the towel I had placed over the screen. I had covered it because I am learning that progress is not always measured in numbers. There are good days and bad days, and the line connecting them all looks a lot more like an ocean than the ramp that takes you out of the water. 

As a teacher, grading is something that comes naturally to me. But how many of us assign values to ourselves that are neither fair nor accurate? As an athlete there is an innate desire in me to be the best, to prove myself, earn respect and a name, show that I am worth something. Prone to wander, Lord I feel it. In every muscle, I feel it. 
I told myself that if I began to compare, I had to leave. That is, if I started to compare how much I could lift, or how many times, the pace or distance I ran, the time I walked in or out, or any thing else to someone around me, I had to leave. Walk out and end my work out right there; because learning to fight for myself and not against myself is so much more important than proving myself.

I believe our bodies are temples, but the way I approach many things, especially the mirror, does not mirror this. Because I believe this, there is nothing wrong with wanting to build your temple strong. While you’re at it, ask the Master Builder to give it a firm foundation. Don’t just compare and compete. Build. You are capable of so much more than you can dream of. So here’s to a journey of learning what it looks like to celebrate what our bodies can do, and being willing to fight no matter how many miles it takes.

Go celebrate, even if it’s a battle.

When Waves Crash

“Your emotions do not determine your level of trust in God.”

Thankfully, neither does your ability to stay on track with your “Read The Bible In One Year” plan. I believe God gives us what we need at just the right time. Even when we are unaware there was lack. This is especially true of His word. As I was reading this morning I came across a particular verse that I had never noticed before, and that stopped me in my tracks. (May His word never cease to do this.) It’s in Genesis 15, which is a chapter that deals with God’s covenant to Abram, who God renames later as Abraham. This man is considered the Father of our Faith. The patriarch of Christianity. This is important to remember.

Now, Abram has been promised by God that he, a childless man, will be a father of nations. A multitude of descendants. He has Abram look at the stars and essentially says,

 “You know how you can’t count all of these? The people that I will bring forth from you will be the same.” 

Right after that it says Abram believed the Lord. Then God adds another promise, equally as wonderful, declaring land that belongs to a King, Abram’s. We hear this and we think, “Wow, this dude is blessed.” 

Even though He had just professed his belief, and God had acknowledged his trust, Abram had doubts. Maybe because of the stories we let shame tell us about ourselves, or about who God is and our relationship with Him. Maybe because we doubt our worthiness when we should be declaring His. Maybe because we try to put God in pretty boxes with steeples that we are more comfortable with. Regardless of the why, God answered His questions with a call to action. To live out the faith He already knew Abram possessed, and make a sacrifice. To offer to God what he could while wrestling with his “How’s?” And “Why’s?” Sometimes we must challenge our doubts with a leap of faith, an offering to God. Movement. When our fears want to pin us down, we must choose to act. To trust. And looking at this piece of scripture we are told that Abram believed the Lord. He trusted Him. So why did he doubt?

I opened this rambling mess of thoughts with a quote from a wise person God has placed in and used in my life;

“Your emotions do not determine your level of trust in God.”

Emotions are funny. Most of us pretend we don’t have them, or we use any number of coping mechanisms to hide what is really going on beneath surfaces that could burst at any moment. But they are also given to us by the One who created us with intention and reason. They help us view our world and what we experience, our relationships with people, and most importantly, our relationship with our Creator.

12 As the sun was setting, Abram fell into a deep sleep, and a thick and dreadful darkness came over him. 13 Then the Lord spoke to him, saying “Know for certain..”

Other translations read:

• A thick and dreadful darkness came over him.
• A terrifying darkness came down over him.
• And behold, dreadful and great darkness fell upon him.
• And behold, terror and great darkness fell upon him.
• And suddenly a frightening and terrifying darkness descended on him.
• And great terror overwhelmed him.

This is heavy. Real. Relatable. Emotions come in waves. We see that here that this heavy terror washing over Abram came on suddenly. Even though we also just read that Abram trusted God. And looking back further the reason Abram was chosen for this covenant in the first place is because he has proven himself to be a faithful servant of the Lord. Even when we trust God, our emotions can still make us feel like we are drowning.

Why is this important? Because Abram’s emotions were clearly not an evidence of a lack of trust in His God. Which means yours are not either. Your fear, anxiety, depression, all of those dark things that may come on suddenly in the dead of night that we don’t want to talk about? You’re not alone in them. Not for a moment. God didn’t look down on Abram and say, “Alright, I clearly need to find a more faithful dude to carry out my covenant with.” No. He spoke to Abram in the midst of his darkness. He reminded him of what was true. We must know that God has provided a means for us to hear His voice in the darkness and the terror. That through His word we can hear Him do the same. Or speak truth instead of reprimands, because these waves we see others dealing with may not indicate a lack of trust in God. When those waves are crashing, we don’t have to be overcome. You can learn to ride the waves. The big and the small. When they seem to be drowning you, remember this:

You have a Savior who walks on water and can calm the seas with His voice alone. Continue to trust Him, and let them crash.

I am in Love With Mornings

I am in love with mornings. The way the soft light tickles the cracks in the blinds. With the quiet. Knowing even if I could not, my roommates rest soundly. Being up first and starting the coffee pot. Pressing “on” as if I am signaling to my anxiety that this fight is indeed on. Sometimes knowing I will be able to make a pot with my own form of liquid courage is more encouragement to venture from my covers and into the day than my alarm. This usually translates into solidly snoozing said alarm in my sleep around 5 times. (God bless my roommate). Groggy but not grumpily, my legs swing over the edge of my mattress and the tips of my toes meet the carpet in the same way I tend to test the water of the ocean. Mornings are like that. Especially the good ones. They must be met softly and slowly. Each spoon of coffee into the filter a reminder that good things are worth fighting for. Routine is a friend of mine. She has woven her way into my mornings as if to remind me to savor every minute and every sip from my mug. Not to waste these seconds. I am a creature of habit. I set alarms to suggest when it is time to move from my corner of the couch, set down the book and words that have captured my attention and my heart, and make myself presentable. Before the alarms though I work on my heart instead of my hair. Brushing through tangles of thoughts and emotions in the one mirror that will show me as I truly am; my bible. It is worn down, the leather gone in places and threads of the fabric it once clung to sprinkle the cover. A friend suggested I buy myself a new one when they last saw it, that people might think I do not take care of it. I did not respond out loud, I know better. But I remember thinking that I am not afraid of people knowing how often I must admit my dependency and hold tight to this little book that brings life and hope into the darkest of places. For me, mornings are like this as well. Every sunrise leaking colors onto a canvas. So I write. I write down my prayers because documenting the Lord’s faithfulness in my life is the best way to fight the doubts and my tendency to forget. Lord, help me be unable to forget.
When I was little I hated mornings. Sleep was more important. My freshman year here I often joked that God was attempting to make me into a morning person. Laughing dryly at all of the days that turned into years with the strength coach at 5:30am, my teammates and I barely lifting our eyes, let alone the weights, and those 8ams that never seemed to go away. I hated them. But now I laugh because this obsession with sunrises is proof that miracles still happen, and God is indeed capable of the impossible. My roommate’s resonate with the negative thoughts that used to cloud the hours on the clock that read “am.” They don’t understand my desire to be up before the sun. That I find comfort in the hours before they wake because I will have no obligation to speak. I can just think. Listen. Be. But I just smile softly when they wander out of their rooms in a daze and their look of bewilderment says: “Again? You were up early again?” I tell them there’s enough coffee for them if they wanted it and return to one of the books I have surrounded myself with in my blanket cocoon. Now that I am older I do not fight mornings, I greet them. I have found this love in their simplicity and depth, and most of all; in their quiet.

The Prayer and The Poem:

The Prayer:

Lord,

My God, I want to call you Father because right now I need comfort, but I also need to be reminded of your sovereignty. That you are God, and I am not. That although I wish things could be different, I believe your will can and must prevail no matter what darkness I may think it is hiding in. I am watching some of my worst fears come to fruition because of the choice of man, and I am in pain. Soul pain that can solely be comforted by you.

I want to ask why this is happening and question your plan, but I know I should be questioning my perception of your hand in my circumstances, not whether you are in them at all.

So what are you trying to teach me? How to show more grace? The thing you have named me for? How to confront sin and the way the devil tempts us? What to do when someone I love falls and the ramifications reach my own heart? I need guidance. I need you, Lord. I am at a loss for direction, and frankly I do not know what I want, other than to look like you no matter the outcome. I’m afraid of what processing the events of the past week, even the past summer, may bring. But please walk me through that fire, don’t let me sit down in it and be consumed. Help me feel and process what must be. Help me be aware of you and your hand. Of love.

Your daughter.

The Poem:

I have seen love today.

I have seen love in unexpected places and in ways I never thought I would see it.

Love is in your roommate untangling the ponytail from your curls because your hands are too busy shaking and scrambling to cover the heartache flowing from your eyes.

Love is children who ask their mother why I am crying and remind me with little arms around my neck that chocolate always helps.

Love is letting the eleven month old feed you a cookie you may not have wanted.

Love is not letting me call myself disgusting, but blowing noses right along with me.

Love is seen in the candles flickering along with songs that cry out words you cannot form with trembling mouths and tripping tongues.

Love is choosing to stand up before the water in the tub has gone cold and looking down at thighs that touch and deciding that doesn’t disqualify you from feeling loved. From being worthy of loving.

Love is asking hard questions and opening eyes and doors to floodgates so that your heart can stop drowning inside your ribs.

Love is being reminded that although the bones that hold it are called so, you cannot cage your heart.

It deserves to beat. To fight. To be loved.

-August 22, 2016

Wisdom From a Four Year Old:

One of the best feelings in the world is holding a small child while they fall asleep. Knowing you are a safe place, that with you their fears and troubles cannot get at them, that they are loved; they rest. Moments like these bring me an inexpressible joy. I was watching some of my favorite kids last night, and as the four year old was falling asleep in my arms watching “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe,” I looked at my watch and effectively decided it was time for them to be in bed. With little arms wrapped around me she asked if I could carry her upstairs. Holding her closer as I stood up from our spot on the couch I said “of course, Hun.” As I’m climbing the stairs and she’s clinging to me, little face in the crook of my neck, she whispers something so profound:

“I always go slow, but when I’m carried I go faster.”

God, you have revealed yourself to me in a little girl. You have given my heart a voice in her whisper, and you have given me a glimpse of yours. I have heard you calling so often. You are begging, pursuing, romancing, pleading with me in the deepest parts of my heart to find rest in you. To know I am safe in your arms, casting my fear aside and trading it in for trust. For a safe place. If I would just do this, I would not be going as slow as I am. Because God, you know more than I that I walk slowly towards You. Tiptoeing and inching my way to the cross because I understand my own inadequacy and failures. But how naive is it of me to think you do not? You died for them on that same cross, and defeated them in your rising. I am slow to make my way towards being known, towards grace, uncharted waters you might call me to, healing from my sin and shame, and towards letting you love me. This is where you come in. If only I would let you carry me. I might get to the places you have for me much faster. Teach me to trust and rest in the safety and love found in your arms. Carry me, Father.  

Roses and Pocket Change

On the corner of M and 26th, I see him.
A homeless man singing his heart out.
He is a performer.
A singer in his own right.
But unlike the voices clawing from higher places,
He does not care if anyone knows his name.
I wonder what kind of life he’s lived.
If, like me,
In middle school choir he imagined one day standing on an empty stage,
Looking out to a full auditorium.
Velvet seats as shiny as his dreams.
But when he went home after class he was told to give up,
That people like him,
Have no hope of walking that carpet of red.
Yet he stands there,
Amongst people too busy to take notice,
To care,
And belts out praises to a God most would have lost faith in by now.
I may be the only one with feet on the ground in his audience for this moment,
But even with heaven no doubt inclining it’s ear and harmonizing,
Affirming just how amazing that grace is,
I only wish I had the roses he deserved.
Not just my pocket change.

<m.g.>

Identity

Identity.

God, you have been ripping me apart here.

I’ve been attempting to write this for months. Months. And with every passing month it becomes more and more difficult to find the words to accurately describe the ways God has had to break through walls and barriers and masks I have put up and called “me.”

For too long I looked for my identity in the things of this world. I tried to make something of myself through my athletic ability, or through my intellect in school, and all too often through what others thought of me. None of it worked. None of it satisfied me or fulfilled me. I was never good enough. Some one was always faster, stronger, smarter, more experienced, more talented, had more faith or hair; and the list could go on forever. That’s life though, isn’t it? And we all know, life isn’t fair.

But I think this runs much deeper than that.
Who am I?

I was asked this question in an interview for Academic Decathlon when I was in tenth grade. (I know, I’m a nerd.) Here’s why this specific time I was asked this question has stuck with me all these years; my answer. It wasn’t profound or deep, it was pretty embarrassing actually. I didn’t have an answer. Feeling incredibly small across the table from my Chemistry teacher and the AP Economics teacher at my high school, I had no answer to give them.

“Describe yourself,” they prodded.

And they were met with silence and eyes diverted to the disgusting green tile work. I mumbled out one adjective:

“Athletic..?”

In my mind, that covered it.
After this all-encompassing word for the 16-year-old in front of them was received with raised eyebrows I whispered that “I like animals.” Hoping to salvage my reputation as a jock, and my hopeless interview.

Clearly I had issues back then discerning who I was, and what made me, ME. Oddly enough this has gotten a bit clearer over the years but no less difficult for me. I think the first step to learning who you are in Christ, is learning who you are not. Letting Him, as hard as it might be, tear down the lies we have internalized, so He might begin anew. Letting God hold the paintbrush, for we are His masterpiece after all.

I went home a couple of weeks ago, in November, and being from a small town, I ran into people who I hadn’t seen since I was in High School. I’m not a people person to start with, they make me anxious. I don’t speak well, my words get jumbled and come out as weird noises and awkward hand movements. But something else bothered me in the questions they asked me.

“Are you still on the tennis team?”

Coincidentally this was asked two days after I had to make the decision to stop playing tennis on the team at Dallas Baptist University. The decision absolutely broke my heart. In order to continue in the Number 1 Education program in the Nation, I had to choose: the sport and my teammates, or my future, and what I feel called to do; teaching. So not only did I hate answering this question and experiencing the emotions that followed, I didn’t appreciate it being asked. The reason behind this did not come to a complete thought until the other night.

I am not my sport.

Before I was a Christian, as seen in my interview response, sports were all I had. They were my identity. Key word: were. They made me who I was, and the way I saw it, they were the only reason I had any value. If you asked me who I was, up until my second semester in college,  I would have answered “a college tennis player.” Having to step back from my team was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make, but it in no way determines the kind of person I am, or will be. I am not a quitter, I made an adult decision to follow my calling and commit myself to my Education.
The other dreaded question came shortly after:

“Are you dating anyone?”

The answer was a “no” encased with laughter from me. Again, this question did not sit right with me, and it wasn’t at all because I was discontent with the answer I had given. On the contrary, I am very content with my “no.” As to why the question, though like the previous was not inherently bad, bothered me, there is this:

I am not my relationship status.

Going to a small Christian University this is probably much more stratified among my age group, but who you date does not define you. Yes, I am single. No, I am not looking for someone to complete me, because I have already found that in Jesus Christ. No, I am not looking for anyone at all, and call that romantic or careless, I am not worried about marriage or whether or not I might change my status on Facebook to “in a relationship.” I am not worried about any someday “future husband,” and whether or not he is out there looking for me. The only thing I pray he is looking for is the will of God. I am simply living the life I have been blessed with. If you use your singleness (I know some of you reading may be rolling their eyes now, because plenty of sermons have pretty much beat this over our heads, but I mean it) then you truly see it as a gift. I love being single. I do. I joke around about the many quirks that are a probable cause of my singleness, but that’s just it, I am joking. There is freedom in it. Not freedom to flirt and waste time, but to use my time. That’s just it: I have time. Limited, because of a crazy schedule, but time that can be used to serve in the Children’s ministry at my church, volunteering in Awanas, teaching kids about The Bible, equipping myself to be the best teacher possible for years down the road. Time to learn what it is God has inclined my heart towards, and chase after that with my eternally bare feet, and my Heavenly Father.

Time to build a relationship with my First Love, the one who created me, quirks and all, knit me together, and alone defines me.  Time to hone in the gifts and talents He has given me, multiply them, and use them, in love, to serve others and glorify the Lord. I do not want to be known as who I once was, but for who the Lord is making me into. When it comes down to it, we are all just a bunch of different looking sinners, in need of the same cross. That is it. My value, your value, comes from knowing the One who loved you enough to die for you.

He calls me redeemed. Beloved. Daughter. Beautiful. Adopted. Accepted. Seen. Loved. Masterpiece. Called. Chosen. Worth dying for.