Monday, July 22, 2013

completely vulnerable

This morning, Jesus tendered my heart to the idea of being completely vulnerable with you. 

I'm still lacking support, but I'm trusting Him. He is going to provide. He always has. He always will. Last check, I think I'm about 60 dollars away from meeting my monthly goal. 

If you would like to commit to praying or supporting me financially, 
for this new chapter of my story, follow the link provided here:

Save the date on your heart and prayers: I'm flying out August 12th!

Dear Fifteen Year-old Me,

It’s been awhile, since I’ve acknowledged you, I know. Time has worn the hands of the clock and left open wounds on my heart. You, darling girl, have held pain and clenched brokenness; you’ve sat with poverty and made your home in the dust.

Precious one, you’ve beheld beauty on many accounts.

A language that has never come naturally has wrecked you.

And those people, whose chocolate piercing eyes heavily contrast your blue-occasionally-green eyes, have wrecked you.

And it’s a wonder that we are still here. That 11 years later one trip spent wearing out the five-word vocabulary would do something to you, it is beyond me.

Yes, 11 years later that trip you took on a whim; it did something to you.

After that week you never were the same. Those children didn’t fade along with the pictures; their names never did flee from your memory. No, they stayed with you. Every waking moment, those sweet little orphan children stayed with you.

You tried to ignore it, pursuing the easy, but love, they wrecked you. And a few trips and years later, you heeded the call to move eight hours away and study missions, because you knew that was going to be your life.

You moved and He moved with you.

And still yet, you just wanted to pack up your bags and move away forever. Those short-term trips would be the keepers of utmost joy, upon seeing those dearly loved, and utmost pain, when it would come time for the inevitable goodbyes.

But you would go, as many times as you could.

You would return with tears in your eyes and you’d feel pain like never before, because you knew that you were made for those children.

You were made for their country.

But God would need to refine you. He’d need to break down your walls and unclench your fists. He’d need to strip away your tendency to cling to people-so that all was left was just you and Him. He’d need to prove to you that He was and is enough.

And we are on the other side, years spent coming and going with tear-stained cheeks and a pain so foreign to others; that they would just never understand. No, they wouldn’t understand the gaping wounds that goodbyes left on your heart. But He would understand. He would always understand.

He would gently slow things down and you would be pushed and challenged to return to a country, that once was home, but would now feel so foreign. You’d have to adjust and remember what it once was like to make friends, again, to find yourself on the other side of the world.

And you would do so, thanks to His graces, but still yet, you’d feel the pull and tug. However, God would make Himself known in the rejection and in the waiting.

You’d actively pursue things on this side of the world, relieving debts, uncertain of what was to come.

Mexico would be out of sight, but never out of mind.

A year would pass with many closed doors, tear-stained cheeks, and family ties that would be redeemed and strengthened around the table. Out of the ashes, your family would rise.

And in hindsight, it would all be clear. Your extra provisions would be just what your family and the people around you would need.

It was always enough. It’s always enough.

And as I write to you of your journey, fifteen-year old girl, I’m overjoyed to tell you that you’ll be returning home soon.

Your feet will soon settle onto the dusty streets and you’ll spend your days walking to work, taking in the sounds of the never-quiet city, loving on the people that He made you for.

Dear fifteen-year old girl, confidence has given you a voice in a different language, and startled that part of you that used to hide in the pages of a book.

You’ve been blessed with a burden, dear daughter.

And eleven years later, He is taking you home.

Oh precious girl, those tears were never wasted; yes, He’s taking you home. 

Friday, July 19, 2013

pull & tug

“I am blown away that my God, who could do this all by Himself, would choose to let me be a little part of it.” 

My heart strays to the teenage girls, the too-young mothers, the runners. And there's a pull and tug. 

A pull to wrap them up and hold them close within my heart forevermore. 

They changed me. 

Parts of my heart were challenged in those moments. My soul quickened, my heart tugged at its seams as they poured out their stories. They were locked up, thrown away without a key; they were deemed second-chance less. 

But I saw courage in their eyes. I saw life and joy, longing to rise. 

And they changed me. 

My heart strays to the sweet, little children who didn't understand but two words, when I walked unassuming into their country for the first time. And there's a pull and tug. 

A pull to return forevermore. 

They changed me. 

Food was sparse, but joy brimmed over. Orphaned, but they loved freely. 
Lacking much, but giving everything. 

And they changed me. 

My heart strays to the book that opened the door. The mere paragraphs that resonated deep within, inspiring me to reach out and attempt at applying. 

Unlocking thirteen months spent three separate times. And there's a pull and tug. 

A pull to be spent with gratitude. 

It changed me. 

I'm on the other side. 

I'm a just a girl, called to move. Compelled to live in the unfamiliar for forevermore. A girl who needs to be broken and poured out for people, for nations. Two hands ready to give, a heart ready to love, and two feet ready to take those next steps. 

It's not about going, anymore. 
We are on the other side. 
It's about moving. 

It's about release. It's about redemption. 

And there's a pull and tug. 

One that I can no longer resist. 

"I saw what I saw and I can't forget it. I heard what I heard and I can't go back."

Nothing can be undone. 
Nothing can be taken back. 

I have to love. 
I have to move. 

He has called me to undo the chains that bind me, to break down the walls that hinder me, and to move. 

To move with confidence, knowing He's providing, that He will provide. 

Because after all, He's changed me. 

Monday, July 8, 2013

won't you move?

I've got questions. I've got relevant questions, alongside dreadful doubts.

I've seen diligence course through their veins. I've seen weariness settle beneath their eyes.

And I wonder where is my anchor?

Where are You on these stormy seas?

I know You are here. I know that Your heart beats for mine, that You ordained us for this moment in time.

But I find my soul crying out that something has to give.

There needs to be a breaking tide that wraps us up in Your love, Your love that always provides.

And I know that You are providing,

but I have to do some confiding.

Harsh hardships have beaten down upon us like the unforgiving rays of the sun.

And so we sit in the shadows of Your shade, for a moment, head in hands around the table, cause we just need You.

we need you to move.

for us. within us. with us.

we need you to move.

And we are faithful, but sure there are moments when faith seems far from full- when it's less.

But You've come through, You have always come through.

So heed our cry.

send peace down like torrents of rain.
provide, lift us up out of pain.

all our hope is in You.

you are the anchor that holds everything together.

Broken jars.

Battle scars.

Torn hearts with forlorn eyes.

We are the daughters and sons, fully undone- waiting for You to move.

And You'll move with unflinching hands and a steady soul,

You'll move.

You will pick us up from this mess and throw out your anchor.

So we will keep our trembling hands out a little longer, knowing that You are providing, that You are moving.