I'm made for more than this

I have a new friend, Innocent, who lives at Home of Hope. He cannot speak, cannot walk without significant help, and cannot feed himself. It is true: he cannot do almost anything to care for his own basic needs, and yet each time I’m with him he wordlessly communicates clearly to me one of the most important theological truths in this life: “I’m made for more than this.”

It is actually quite stubborn and sometimes exhausting. I’m not sure if I was there every day that my appreciation would remain. But today I’m listening and learning, and today I’m thankful for his reminder to me.

Almost every time I’ve had the opportunity to take Innocent out of the high chair in which he sits for so much of his day, and take him for a walk, his face lights up. He’s radiant. It is as if he is screaming with joy, “YES! Get me out of there! Let me try! I’m made for more than this!”

But inevitably, even if he is exhausted from a long, difficult walk, when you go to put him back in his seat-- *a seat made for babies for meal time not for sitting for a significantly large percentage of a day-- inevitably you try to put him back in and he puts up an ENORMOUS fight. He kicks and twists, he refuses to cooperate to put his feet into the vacant holes. It is as if he is screaming with his contorting body, “I’M MADE FOR MORE THAN THIS!”

And then the waiting for mealtime begins. With so many to feed who cannot feed themselves, the wait can be quite long sitting in that chair, and inevitably when I visit I hear a loud thud, thud, thud, thud. And I look over and there’s Innocent rocking his seat back and forth and back and forth, dangerously almost tipping himself out of the chair each time. But it is as if he’s rhythmically yelling with any means he has “get me out of this chair! I’M MADE FOR MORE THAN THIS!”

His body might be wasting away and he may only be able to do a small fraction of the things bodies were made to do, but he has not forgotten his dignity. He has not forgotten what he was built for. He is physically crying out “How Long?” He has not given up and resigned himself to a broken body in a broken world. He somehow has the wisdom to fight it every day.

Which brings me to us. Is that true of you? Do you believe you were made for more than this or have you grown content with this place as your home or forgotten how to call out “how long?” Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote: “We Christians need not be ashamed of showing a little impatience, longing and discontent with an unnatural fate.” Sometimes I think we’ve become confused and convinced ourselves to pursue contentment at the expense of pursuing redeemed lives and our world being made right. But those don’t have to be mutually exclusive. I agree with Bonhoeffer, I want to have eyes that see my brokenness and the world’s brokenness not just with fatalistic resignation and a shallow version of contentment but with faith and longing and fight and hope for the future.

I don’t think Innocent’s literal railing against his fate bothers the LORD. In fact I believe it defends His glory and the dignity with which He made man. It communicates that the power that raised Jesus from the dead is at work in the world and who are we to just quit? And when we fight for justice and when we join the LORD in his pursuit of healing in the midst of our broken lives, broken marriages, broken families, broken bodies, broken intimacy—which includes saying “WE WERE MADE FOR MORE THAN THIS!”-- I think we have the privilege of joining the brilliant theologian Innocent, and the host of saints before him who with great faith and respect for God cried out, “How Long? I was made for more than this!”

It is true: we might wait until the LORD returns for these things to be made right. And like Innocent, rocking unstably in our broken bodies acknowledging and even drawing attention to our pain and longings can be quite vulnerable. I feel that. But that feels like an honest option of faith and hope in the midst of living in a broken world. We have an option to wait with hope and expectation, trusting his power, his love and His promises, and that looks VERY different from waiting as people resigned to remain in a broken world. Less comfortable to be sure. But I think closer to how we're meant to live as we wait. 

And let's not forget, friends, he was actually raised from the dead and His power is at work in the world. He could breathe new life into you, into your body, into your marriage, into the world. It is what he is actively doing and pursuing. 

What parts of you are broken and you long to have made whole? How might your day and life look different if you actually let yourself imagine what the LORD intends for His people and live into participating in announcing “the Kingdom is at hand!” Where have you been submitted to an unholy acceptance instead of crying out “how long?” What were you made to rail against? What were you made to fight for, alongside the One who cares even more deeply than you?

      

*I have tremendous respect and gratitude for the work the women at the orphanage do. I might be wrong, but I don’t believe they would feel criticized by my longings for more for the kids. And I don’t believe they would argue that with their limited capacities currently they are unable to create an environment in which Innocent can thrive. I think they would agree: he was made for much more than this.

who is the thief?

Someone we know is stealing from us (*not someone who works in our home). it is mostly little things: a huge bag full of avocados from our tree to sell at the market; cups of oil here and there when we're not around. adding to the price of things they buy for us to take a cut. a lot of little things adding up.

But I'm torn. 

who is the thief here?

In Isaiah 3: 14 the Bible says:

"The LORD enters into judgment against the elders and leaders of his people: "It is you who have ruined my vineyard; the plunder from the poor is in your houses."

I look around my house. I see our three computers. our ipad. 2 iphones. 2 kids "ipad"s. 2 DS. A trampoline. A pantry full of food filled to overflowing chaos. bins of extra clothes for the next season. closets full, full, full.

it all feels like evidence against me. and temptation and infuriating injustice to others. 

People are starving. Today people are selling their bodies and their children's bodies to make enough to feed their family. A woman felt it necessary to revoke her rights to one of her children somewhere (MANY PLACES!) in the world today because she doesn't have enough to feed them. 

where's the plunder? it is in MY house. the plunder of the poor is in MY house.

My husband, so tender and growing in wisdom. His response to finding out more about the story: "I found out _____ has been taking more things. avocados. oil. etc."

Hunter: (big sigh and achy voice). "oh ____ must be so desperate." (big sigh).

stealing isn't the answer and has to have consequences. but my hoarding and consumerism is somehow a connected issue in the equation. we belong to each other in the world. There are many injustices that happen in the world, for which we all (rightly!) demand justice. And as Christians, instead of vengeance we encourage one another to wait for the appointed time and the appointed judge (not us). 

Someone in the world--my neighbors here in Rwanda-- are waiting for me to receive justice for my hoarding and their starving. my plenty and their not enough.  

Back in the States my body ached and sometimes I limped along knowing that my house was full of treasures for here on earth, which moth and rust were destroying. and yet I kept them. and now I'm here, living the life some people wish they could because their passion draws them to it, and what are we doing? 

the plunder of the poor is still in my house.

mercy, LORD. that's the only way to you. I can't live closer to the poor and snuggle babies enough to clear my debt. we cannot use our vocation to do good enough to make our way to you. 

Not the labors of my hands can fulfill thy laws demands. Could my zeal no respite know. could my tears forever flow. all for sin could not atone, Thou must save and though alone.

I stand hand in hand, brothers with the bloody murderer asking for mercy from the LORD. I have sinned.

But He has saved me. Paid the penalty I deserved.

I want to live differently, not to earn God's favor or OUT OUT OUT damn spot wash my way from the guilt. but out of his generosity towards me (in every way) I now want to truly share. to truly consider others brothers and sisters, for whom I would give up anything. 

someone we know is stealing. and it is both of us. 

let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

Proverbs 30: 8
Keep falsehood and lies far from me;
    give me neither poverty nor riches,
    but give me only my daily bread.

(PS, you can pray for us. we do need to have some hard conversations with this person. our added sin of consumerism doesn't take away their guilt. but I do pray it softens us).

he's coming mama, he's coming soon

When we told Lucy that we were moving to Rwanda she took it pretty hard. She's always understood the gravity of things more than I expect little ones to, and so she took it all in. The fact that she wouldn't get to see her cousins and grandparents. The fact that she wouldn't get to see best friends. The fact that there wouldn't be a Kangaroo Jacks where she could have her birthday party (didn't have so much compassion or patience for that plea. good grief) But a few of her responses were especially poignant and memorable:

1- One day with trembling voice and eyes looking down at her full plate at breakfast, she very quietly acknowledged to us: "I'm scared to go because I'm afraid the water will make us sick and we won't have enough food." 

she can't yet read but she can see.

I watched as my husband tenderly took her hand across the table and drew her eyes to meet his. He didn't make her feel silly for her concerns. He simply told her, "Lucy, I want you to know that we're moving to Rwanda because Daddy has a job there. And my job will pay us more than enough to have clean water and plenty of food." 

pause.

Lucy was listening intently, trusting her daddy and looking braver. 

"And Lucy, do you know what my job is going to be?" 

still quietly: "what?"

"I know it makes us sad to move so far away. it makes me sad too. but, Lucy, if I do my job well, some businesses will be able to hire more and more mommies and daddies to work and then those mommies and daddies will be able to give their kids enough food. and then their kids will get to go to school instead of help carry firewood or walk long miles to fetch water."

(ahem. yes you can now picture me on top of a chair beating my chest saying 'DAYUUUUUUM. THAT'S MY FREAKING HUSBAND PEOPLE'.)

I'm not exaggerating. in that tender moment she looked braver. not coerced, not manipulated or guilted. but braver and understanding a "big thing" but in an appropriate way.

this is a photo I look at as I pray for her courage and joy.

(now of course when we pulled away from our send-off party, she still screamed 'I'm NOT going! you can't make me. Jesus didn't put this idea in my heart.") But don't we all have moments of understanding and bravery and also sadness and fear? Peter seemed all so confident and trusting walking out on the water. until he didn't anymore. and God still loved and worked through him.

2- The second moment I'll share was the day that Lucy walked up to me with a look of determination and "I need to tell you something" written all over her body language.

"Mama?"
"yes Lu, what's up."
"I'm still really sad about us moving to Rwanda and don't want to go. (pause) But I've been thinking about it. And (with the most matter of fact voice a 5 year old can muster). Well I been thinking about it and I thought that it isn't very fair that Isaiah has lived where we are from but we haven't yet lived where he was from. so it only seems fair, ya know?"

That girl.


















Fast forward to why I'm telling you these stories today. This week a new friend asked me how Lucy took our decision to move to Rwanda and I told her those stories of her varied responses: fear, resolve, anger, yielding. Her response was "wow, those are pretty big thoughts for such a little girl. How is it that she started processing things like that?"

And immediately the memory came to mind.  

Lucy stuffing donations into the suitcase before we leave to bring Isaiah home

Lucy was just two years old when we entered the hardest part of the wait for Isaiah. Between September and November of 2009 I felt like I limped along barely breathing. It seemed like I couldn't even pull myself together enough to parent sweet Lucy. It was like how at the end of a pregnancy when the weight of the child grows heavier and heavier inside and the space for breathing is negligible-- it's just so hard to breathe. just so hard to function.

Except that was thing thing. Waiting for a child who is currently living in an orphanage is not like a pregnancy at all. Waiting for a child at the end of a pregnancy is hard because you're uncomfortable and excited. I felt those feelings 41 1/2 weeks pregnant with both Lucy and Micah. But while you wait you know they're in the safest place: the mother's womb. It is a precious impatience. 

Micah- born August 18, 2011

Not so when you are waiting for a little one living in an orphanage.

Isaiah Christmas day 2009 at Home of Hope

At that point in my life I'd seen a bit too much to feel just excitement about Isaiah coming home. I was grieving. The One who is the defender of the weak and the same One who hears the cries of the afflicted had begun to share with me his fierce love and compassion for the poor. I'd had the enormous privilege of living with girls who'd been orphaned by AIDS in Zimbabwe. I'd been in too many orphanages. I'd seen the poverty. The pain. The brokenness. And I'd read how fiercely God feels love and compassion for them. I'd read about His promises to restore. His eternal and Holy intolerance for suffering and anything less than His design. And I started to feel more and more like that. 

Waiting for a child who lives in an orphanage is a very, very difficult thing.


And so I sat with my 2 year old daughter as she ate lunch. 

As she ate plenty I wondered if Isaiah was getting enough. As she got full attention I wondered if he got any. With all these too-big-for-me thoughts I eventually was caught up in close to despair, and I literally laid my head onto the table and wept. 

And not unlike her father towards her years later, she reached over and tenderly touched my hand and then cheek. And she told me "He's coming mama. He's coming soon."

Those are big words and thoughts for a little girl. He's been sharing parts of Himself with her too, it seems.

the day they finally met. she brought gift after gift over to him. "dis is por izayah. dis is por hiim"

He's coming mama. He's coming soon.

Today as I spent my morning at Home of Hope, I felt that the whole time. I grieved and ached for the kids, but not as one without hope. I groaned along with creation for things to be made as they should be. For legs to walk. For kids to have mommies. For eyes to be able to see. 

But as I groaned and ached and felt compassion, I never felt alone. I felt that whisper: 

"He's coming mama. he's coming soon."

I looked around the room and counted how many beds there are. And I counted how many of the kids have significant special needs. And how many don't have any significant special needs. oh except that huge one: a family. I would groan and then I would remember and even feel His compassion and love which led Jesus to die to redeem far as the curse is found. 

He's coming mama. he's coming soon.

And I looked around the room trying to figure out with all the shaved heads which ones are boys and which are girls. And I would groan and feel His assurance that He knows the number of hairs on their heads.

"He's coming mama, he's coming soon." 

I spent my two hours today holding and spoon-feeding the sweet six year old (who looks like a two year old and moves like a newborn because of an issue at birth that would have been no problem had he been born in the US). yes it took 2 hours to (comfortably) feed him, though the caregivers don't have time to be so slow and careful. there's just not enough time. 

he's coming mama, he's coming soon.

and as I fed him I sang to him and groaned for him. 

at one point I got to the last verse of the great hymn "How Great Thou Art"

"when Christ shall come with shouts of acclamation and take me home, what joy shall fill my heart. then I shall bow in humble adoration and there proclaim, my God how great Thou art."

I'd been singing already about God's love for this sweet boy. I'd been spending lots of time groaning about how he can't move. groaning about how he has to lay soaked in urine for so long. rejoicing at how he gave me a few full on belly laughs. the sweetest noises I think I've ever heard. rejoicing and groaning at how he tried to sing along with me a little bit. making noises with me.

But then we got to that last verse.

And I thought about my drummer friend Zach who does a parade march at that part of the song, welcoming and introducing the King. so much anticipation! And my heart leapt as I thought about how when Christ comes my sweet six year old friend will be taken HOME. When He sees Christ as He truly is he will first LEAP to his feet showing Christ's redemption and power over his previously broken body. But then as the song says, he will willingly--not because he is lame--bow down and sing: "how great Thou art."

He was with me the whole time. 

He's coming mama. He's coming soon.

As a Christian I groan with Him, with others, with all of creation almost in defense of God's glory--how He intends for the world to be. Groaning is supposed to be a significant part of this waiting world, friends. But we groan, we work, and we wait...but not as ones without hope.

"Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world." 

though it linger, wait for it.

He's coming mama. He's coming soon.  

hey beautiful child, Daddy loves you...

I spent this morning with the beautiful children at Home of Hope, the orphanage where Isaiah lived for almost 2 years. It is only 10 minutes from our house and I’ve arranged my schedule to go twice a week in the mornings while the big kids are at school and Lilian and Micah play together. 

I still remember what it was like driving up for the first time, now 3 ½ years ago. Our driver carefully drove down the windy, bumpy, steep road to the blue gate. I sat near the front of the bus. Others chattered in their excitement and joy. Me, I sat speechless, eyes closed, head pressed against the window. Sometimes there are only groans and wails for sorrows and sometimes for joy there is only silence, a held breath, awe, wonder, and still an ache for the story that brought us there. This was one of those times. I silently let mixed tears of joy and sorrow fall down my cheeks as we pulled up.

Driving the now familiar route to Home of Hope I notice that what it feels like when I arrive hasn’t changed much. I still can’t quite catch my breath. I’m still on holy ground. Ground where babies are made in His image but no longer live with the earthy ones whose image they resemble, ground where there are too many beds and not enough snuggles, ground where there are too many bowls but not enough attention, too many beautiful faces and not enough tender caresses, too many kids and not enough mommys.

I usually spend my time one on one with kids, seeking to offer a quiet 10 minute respite with no competition for care. It isn’t easy to sneak away, as oftentimes 3 seconds upon arrival three or four of the ones who are mobile quickly wrap themselves around your body begging to be the one who gets the snuggle. Who gets the song. Who gets the peek-a-boo.

Lilian and I spent yesterday morning together with Micah. Both of us playfully competing who got to give the peek-a-boo to just him. Who got to chase him and make him giggle. Who got to lay with him until he fell asleep. Two of us willing and able to provide that to one of him.

That’s what happens most times when I go. I gaze into these beautiful eyes of a mommy-less one and think about what I’m able to offer my kids (even imperfectly) and what I long for the kids of Home of Hope to have.

Micah's birthday party collection

Today that moment came while singing a favorite Thompson lullaby (we've probably sung it to each kid at least 100 times. Lucy maybe 300 times) from Andrew Peterson’s Slugs and Bugs cd. “Hey beautiful girl.” The lyrics go:

“I’ve got your bottle and I’ve got you swaddled and you’re too loud to ignore.

Your mama is sleeping the angels are keeping, so cry no more.

Hey beautiful girl! Daddy loves you, LOVES you, most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.

The stars are all shining

The birds are reclining the squirrels are all nestled down

And the trees in the forest all join in the chorus and sway into the sound

Hey beautiful girl! Daddy loves you, he LOVES you, most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.

I know that moons rise and time flies and sweet little girls get older.

But then when your tooth aches or your heart breaks, will you still cry on my shoulder?

Hey beautiful girl! Daddy loves you, he LOVES you. most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.”

Today I camped out on the floor next to the crib of one of the little ones who has significant special needs. She can’t move any limbs or even her head to stop her drool from spilling all over her now wet and uncomfortable pillow. Not to mention the flies that she can’t swat away that cover her.

So I camped out next to her and I swatted the flies.

And I sang.

And I cried.

And I cried out.  

“Hey beautiful girl. Your daddy loves you, he LOVES you.”

Oh LORD, she IS beautiful. I want their mommy or daddy to sing this to them.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.”

Oh LORD I want her to have parents who tell her she is the most beautiful one in the whole world.

…

“I know that moons rise and time flies and sweet little girls get older. But then when your tooth aches or your heart breaks, will you still cry on my shoulder”

I want someone to be achy all over about how she’s getting older the way I ache all over about my 5/5/2 year olds. They’re growing.  oh Jesus.  JESUS!!! PLEASE!! They’re all growing fast and they don’t have parents to feel happy and achy about that all at once.

(the ache and compassion and love borrowed and imparted from Him starting to more deeply sink in).

Shit, shit, shit. Oh Jesus. How LONG?!  

Jesus. Give them a mommy who sees them and delights in them. Who listens to their whole story when they feel rejected, hurt, lonely. My Lucy, what if it was my Lucy? What if it was still my Isaiah? 

(singing through tears)

Yes, beautiful child, Daddy loves you. (The Father loves you. sees you. hears you.) you're the most beautiful child in the whole wide world.

(puddle)

(time to leave)

I tried to sing her all the way to sleep, wondering if anyone had ever done that for her.

But there were too many other beautiful ones screaming over and over again, waking her up. Too many crying for so many things. Too many cries and not enough lullaby-ers. Too many (all so important) kids not enough mommys.

I know adoption isn’t perfect. But being raised in an orphanage isn’t enough.

(And, YES, as I consider my own week, my own frailty, my own brokenness, my own need of remembering and hearing my worth and the Father’s love… As I remember all of that, I see my twin sister next to me who bears the same broken body as me and who bears the same beautiful image as me. and I begin to cry out for more than a mommy for both of us. still a mommy for her, but more than that for both of us.  

I cry out for a Savior from heaven who came. Who wept. Who healed. Who died for us and received God's wrath for us. And was raised. 

Who will return. Who will wipe away all her tears. And mine.) 

my grace resistant life

My grace resistant life

Don’t give it to me for free.

Not your friendship.

Not His grace.

I’ll earn it.

I’ll send enough emails.

Buy enough presents.

Wake up to run.

Stay up late to talk.

I might even try to buy your kids with gifts or fun.

Just don’t make me do nothing.

I’m not sure then that I’m lovable.

Let me inspire you.

buy for you.

write to you.

drive through the night for you.

 stay up late and get up early to try to be enough.

I’ll do whatever it takes.

It’s getting faster. It’s getting louder. It isn’t enough. I’m addicted.

Out out damn spot!

I can’t keep it up.

Don’t let me cowardly jump like Javert, resistant to unmerited kindness.

and yet already I'm losing my soul trying to win the world.

Unweaned.

Resistant to grace.

in friendship. in Him.

Help me.

Save me.

Rest me.

grace me.

I quit.

I'll never be enough.

drink the cup, Jesus. you must.

give me grace. its the only way.

give me a quieted soul.

freedom.

voices of shame: when anxiety over insignificance motivates me

I’m not sure I’m going to try super hard to learn Kinyarwanda.

Before you judge me, hear me out.

Life in Rwanda is giving me an indescribable gift. It kind of feels like a “continued education” class that’s required of teachers every few years. The name of my course is “voices of shame: when anxiety over insignificance or fear of being unlovable motivates me.”

This is a rut I fall into what feels like regularly: wondering if my life will matter; wondering if it will matter in the ways I want it to; wondering if it will matter to the people whose opinion I care about. And God keeps meeting me here, gently but firmly speaking into lies I believe about what it means to know and serve Him.

Many days there is a struggle within me about what “god” I’ll serve. Oftentimes my “god” is my significance/my name/my reputation/my likability and I spend my days bowing down before that god, spinning in circles trying to make sure I’m doing enough to be significant in the world, doing enough to be impressive, doing enough to make sure I’m lovable to God and people. It isn’t a kind god to serve, my friends. It is brutal, harsh, exhausting. But I’ve spent many days at that grueling altar.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to have an impact in the world. I truly believe that’s part of how we were designed. And certainly sacrifice and laying down one’s life are a part of that.

But I have begun to learn the dangerous/slight nuance in my life, when behaviors (motivated by fear-of-insignificance or being unlovable) are sneakily disguised and appear like callings, like following Him. Lots of people assume those behaviors are beautiful and “Christian,” but I’m continuing to see that some of what I do or am tempted to do is (at least partly) motivated by shame and fear, not love. 

I came to Rwanda with only a few things I felt sure of:  I was going to wait 3-6 months to commit to very many things to see how our family’s adjustment is going, and I was going to study (hard!) Kinyarwanda (the local language).

But the past few months I have felt God showing me different things about who I am. About what at least the next little season might have for me. And the things He is showing me there (along with serving and loving my family well) feel like they will take up most/all of the time I have in a day/week. I don’t like always like admitting my limitations that way, but that kind of acknowledgment keeps resonating as deeply truer, freer and feels reflective of a submission to my created-not-Creator position in life.

This isn't a statement about anyone but me. The Holy Spirit really does actively and accurately work in each of our lives. I believe a lot of expats here are meant to learn Kinyarwanda. They were made for it. They are meant to be able to have true, deep friendship, fellowship, teaching and learning capability with folks here, which necessitates learning the local language. Yes many people know English, but knowing someone’s first/heart language is so crucial to real friendship. Thus many really are meant to study/master the language.

But every time I think about learning Kinyarwanda this is what goes through my head:

• I need to start studying the language so I don’t feel like a failure (or so I feel like a “somebody”) when visitors come from the States.
• I need to start studying the language so people here will think I’m committed.
• I need to learn the language because ____ did and I care about what they think of me. or because ______ did and I want to be more like them.
• You suck you suck you suck, Adrianne. Why can’t you just do more? Why can’t you get your act together enough? Plenty of other people seem capable of doing it.

I don’t think those are the reasons most people have learned Kinyarwanda. I think there’s a beautiful, pure, given desire within them that God birthed. But the only voice I hear when I consider it is one of shame and fear.

Last night as Hunter and I talked over dinner (and tears), I realized more and more I felt an emotional and real “would God still love me” if I didn’t _______; would my life be enough if I didn’t ___________. Last night the fill in the blank was “would I be enough if I didn’t learn Kinyarwanda”, but before this specific battle, I have struggled throughout life believing that the harder things are always better. That doing them makes me lovable to God and to others. And so I feel anxious and comply and submit my life to my fears over and over again. Show me the harder, less traveled road, Mr. Frost, and yes, please I’ll take it. But I’ve found on that road I’ve stumbled and been wounded time and time again. I’ve become slave to an impossible-to-satisfy god, even while making offering after insufficient offering.

So for now, I’m going to wait on learning Kinyarwanda.

That could change. At some point (maybe even soon) God might open windows of time for me and make it clear that it is an option/invitation/calling and He might plant in me a true desire for it. But His voice and invitation would sound so different than the voices I'm hearing right now. Voices that enslave, shame, cause me to lose sleep.

Instead, today I’m choosing to submit my life to freedom in Christ. That’s not a permissiveness or laziness as I once feared it might be. But it is a freedom in the rest He bought for me. It is freedom in the truth that I don’t have to do something to make Him love me or to be enough for Him. It is freedom to embrace limitations and constraints shared by humanity. And it is a freedom to embrace how he made me (and to the truth that He delights in that intentional design). And a freedom to rest in His finished work.

For any of you who also are motivated by fear of insignificance or something similar, I hope you too get to start learning what freedom in Christ feels like. It gives way to rest and to joy, and to really learning the limited (but beautiful!) things for which you’re made. And this morning as I worshiped the One true God who gave His life for us, freedom in Him gave way to grateful tears.   

chipped not shattered...

As is true for many newlyweds, Hunter and I received a coffee pot as a wedding gift. Unfortunately, in a clumsy moment sometime in the first six months of owning it, I dropped it on our kitchen floor. But it didn't shatter. However, right at the spout it was significantly, noticeably chipped. The lid was also broken so you couldn't really make it stay on the pot. 

But we kept that broken coffee pot for 8 1/2 years. And I drank coffee out of it at least 90% of those mornings. (yes mom, even when I was pregnant. I know that's still a sore issue). That's 2,792 days of drinking out of a broken coffee pot.  

No one would have argued that the coffee pot was less than effective anymore. No one would have argued if I had decided to replace it. But I couldn't do it. It wasn't broken enough for that kind of investment. 

That image really encompasses a lot about what I've believed about myself for many years. I've believed that there was some kind of line between chipped and broken and since I have so much to be thankful for, so many things going for me... I don't qualify for really needing people to stop for me. Of course I've got some nicks and bruises but nothing in comparison to others who've had it much harder...so I don't qualify for attention, help, concern. I need to buck up and do my part in helping others. I need to ignore my pesky wounds that keep drawing attention to themselves. Maybe if I just serve others enough, care enough about major issues, then my (self-defined) smaller ones will just disappear. Either way I need to just press on.

But. Through a series of activities that I can only really label "God's kind pursuit of me", manifest through friendships, counseling, reading His word and so on, I threw away my old coffee pot and have tried to trash my skewed worldview along with it. That worldview, I think, is getting replaced with a kinder and more Biblical one.

Here's some of what that journey was like.

Last summer I spent a long time studying a passage in the Bible that tells of a day when Jesus was asked by a man named Jairus to save his dying 12 year old daughter. He agrees and is following Jairus when a woman who had a disease where she bled for 12 years came up and touched his garment. While time was of the essence in rescuing the little girl whose story was (as any Emergency Room doc would agree) much more acutely traumatic, Jesus stopped and he stayed with the woman. The scripture tells us that she told him the "whole truth" as he listened to her whole story. And in his staying with her, not just her sneaking up and touching him, she was deeply healed. 

But in the meantime, the little girl died. The story doesn't end there, of course, after arriving at the scene, Jesus resurrects her. 

But that's not the part of the story that I got beautifully stuck on for almost two months. I wasn't stuck on the truth that Jesus went and spent equal care and attention to the traumatized little girl and raised her from the dead. Yes, that's amazing and that might be the part of the story that God has for you today when you read it. But the part that is slowly changing me is the fact that Jesus stopped for the woman whose problems appeared so much less significant. Surely her problems were real...but in comparison with the little girl there was no question?! But Jesus doesn't assess situations the way we do. The broken woman's story, her health and healing was equally significant to Jesus. 

His stopping for her, his valuing her and his listening to her has felt like the permission I've needed to walk up to him and touch his garment and admit what's true. Actually, maybe my problems aren't as bad as others. But they've been affecting our marriage for 8 years. And I think they've been affecting me for a lot longer than that. Somethings not quite right. Somethings wrong actually. I don't feel like I have a lot to complain of, but I feel like I'm broken and needing help. needing rescued. 

And the attention I've needed hasn't bothered Jesus. It isn't stealing from anyone else that I'm receiving care, attention, mercy, love, help from him. His resources aren't limited the ways that I have arrogantly (and harmfully) defined them to be. 

There are many details that I won't share here as they involve other people and they frankly just aren't that important for most people to know. But. Last fall I participated in a counseling group with other women called Healing Hearts, provided by the Barnabas Center in Richmond, VA. The group is being offered two other times this fall, which is part of why I wanted to share my experience with it: to encourage others of you who might be hurting, broken, but reluctant to seek care.

There's real help and hope and redemption on offer and Healing Hearts is a great place to start. I think going through that group is actually one of the things that (looking back) felt necessary for me to come to Rwanda healthier. It is also why it felt surprising and confusing that after all that undoing of lies about chipped/broken that we were sent away from Richmond, after I finally agreed/believed that the work of showing and receiving God's love there was equally valuable and important as doing that in places like Rwanda. 

But, here, too, I can spend time with folks who look a lot like me, whose stories seem more "chipped" than "broken" from the outside appearance. But I don't need to assess that. Their story and life, their health and wholeness is deeply significant to the King. In fact, I think that kind of listening might be part of what He's made me for. 

So, it feels like a big gift to have participated in Healing Hearts (though the counseling group of course wasn't like going on a vacation. it was hard, emotional work!) But I am deeply thankful that I got to spend my time unpacking some of my story and allowing Him to heal parts of me. If any of this is resonating with you, I sincerely encourage you to consider participating in a Healing Hearts Barnabas group this fall. and feel free to ask me more detailed questions if you have them.