There Is A House

There is a house. Every misshaped stone set in place with course mortar and weathered hands. Thatch spills over the rooftop, shading the blossoms and herbs. A creeping vine winds its path up the side of one wall, finding a home in every crevice of chipped stone. A cobblestone pathway leads to a large wooden door, beckoning the friend and stranger alike. There is a home. A kitchen with a brick oven. Every pot is cast iron and every pan is made of copper. All the spoons are wooden, absorbing the flavors of the food. An old woman is there, with a kind, wrinkled face. Her face, arms, and apron are covered in flour, and she kneads a lump of dough with expert hands while humming a tune. A loaf of fresh bread rests nearby, waiting for the expected, yet unknown visitor who would next enter the doorway. A basket of fresh vegetables waits to be blended into a hearty soup.

Peek around the hallway. An old man sits in a chair with an even older book on his knee. He lifts his pipe and ponders life. A map and a telescope are placed near the window, hinting of someone still young at heart. A cup of tea half drunk and a pair of wiry spectacles are nestled among papers on the table. The song of a bird drifts on the breeze through the open window. Tiptoe around the corner. The wooden floor creaks beneath soft feet. A wardrobe, a dim mirror, peeling paint, a lace duvet. What memories are to be found here? Follow the hallway to the back door. Step outside again. The morning mist is gone, the countryside alive. A well pump still flows, and white linens dance up and down the clothesline. The days drift by slowly, contentedly; speaking of a life well lived, well shared, well served, well loved.

One carries a beautiful face who has lived long in hardship, yet whose heart still beats with dreams. Dreams of love and joy and unseen things. A life who gives and pours and loves will leave behind a legacy. There is a house. It is more than sticks and stones. It is a labor of love to those whose lives the dweller touches. There is a home.

The Fragrances of Jesus

Last Sunday night at youth group, we talked about the fragrances of Jesus, as mentioned in the Song of Solomon. Every attribute of Jesus is the exact opposite of every struggle in our lives when we turn to them instead of Him to fill the desires inside of us. For examples, when we long for love, we turn to lust. The good news is, is that as His beloved ones, we bear His fragrance now, and our identity is not in our sin but in Him and His attributes. So when God looks at us, He doesn't see lust, but His own Son's love. He understands our struggles, but they don't define who we are anymore. So, we went around the room to different stations, and relished in our new identity in Him.

3-2-11

It's a peaceful day.

The sun is shining,

The warmth is slowly moving in,

The aroma of baking cookies fills the air,

Soft music is playing in the background.

I hugged my mom today.

Between work, I'm contemplating my life,

Thankful that when God looks at me, He sees Jesus...

...Not my failures

Been dealing with anger lately,

And self-sufficiency.

I'm not who I want to be yet;

Don't feel much like trying.

Just want to soak in His presence

and let His love wash the stress away.

Well, God has surprised me...

I am not a kid person-whether that means baby, in-between, or teenager. I admire people who can laugh and play with children and actually enjoy it. God must have given those people a special gift that He didn't bestow upon me. Well, a little over a month ago, between the inspiration of a rare spontaneity, the Holy Spirit, and the testimony of a servant-hearted friend, I decided that I wanted to volunteer at our church's youth group until I left for grad school this fall.

The weekend I was planning on talking to the youth pastors about it, I had the whole house to myself. "I'll just relax at home on Sunday morning and read my Bible a little," I thought. But I woke up early from natural causes like usual, and by the time I had done a load of laundry and showered, I noticed that I still had time to make it to church. With a beating heart, I decided, "Okay, I'll do it." At the end of the service I forced myself to introduce myself to the youth pastors and express my interest. She gave me a funny look, and I thought, "Oh good, they don't need me". But she said, "That's funny, we've been wanting people who will help serve the youth."

Tonight was my third night. Every Sunday morning I dread having to spend my day off at church, but every evening I come home full of God's presence and totally glad that I went. I'm a naturally shy person, even around kids 10 years younger than me. I've been trying to observe the dynamics of it all. It's not the best youth group I've ever been to. The first hour we play games and hang out, the second hour there is a message, but the third hour...that's what makes it all worth it. The third hour is devoted to worship and ministering to one another and intentionally listening to what God is speaking to each one of us. It is amazing how much farther ahead spiritually some of these kids are than I was at their age. They actively listen for God's voice, then journal it or encourage another with the word they received. They are practicing and living out a multi-dimensional relationship with the living God, and they act as if that's normal! 

The other kids I pray for. A and A didn't show up tonight, they're the type who dress in all black and don't talk much. Then there are D and C, who need to stop worrying what the other thinks about them and focus on what God thinks of them. E is in the shadow of his spiritually-mature brother, still trying to figure out if he really believes in all this. S is new, but he will do anything to fit in...kinda reminds me of my littlest brother. In fact, this experience has helped me much more in knowing what to pray for my brothers. When I walk into youth group, I feel like every kid is wearing a mask. If only they knew the freedom they could have if they dropped the facade and decided that they must get a hold of God's presence in their lives...no matter what. What can we do to get them to open up and be real? How do we get past the surface into what they're really dealing with in their lives? A smile doesn't mean everything is okay.

I am also not a very expressive person...especially when it comes to dancing. But I've been realizing more and more lately, "What have I to lose?"...well, only more time that I could have in the abundant life with Him. So I danced tonight, and to some Scottish highland music, no less-haha!! Okay, so maybe it's easier in a group of kids than with peers or those older than me. They already think I'm crazy or super spiritual or something. I don't have to live up to a preconceived notion with any of them. They don't know me yet, so I can be who I want to be. I want to be real and genuine. I just want to be available. I know I only have a few months with them, I know I'm not going to revolutionize the youth group at True Life Fellowship, but I'm here for the time being, and God can use me if He wants to.

I think that is one of the reasons ministry wasn't successful for me in Kenya. Instead of being willing to be used where I was at, whatever that looked like, I kept trying to "find my nitch". I never found it, and I wasted a lot more than time there. The reality is, is that here at the youth group, the situation is not much different. Youth are most definitely not my "nitch", and I'm still not some super spiritual person. In fact, the only difference between here and Kenya is that we can speak English and have air conditioning. Oh wait...but one more thing...I'm making myself available.

Tonight a young girl came and sat beside me while I was worshipping. Seba (pronounced "Shaybah" which is Hebrew for "daughter of royalty") asked, "Is God speaking anything to you?" I answered, "Yeah, well, He is more, like, washing over me. I've had a pretty stressful week, and He is just filling me with His peace." She nodded and went quiet. "What about you?" She shook her head. "No, I'm trying, but I just can't hear Him." "Do you want to?", I asked. "Yes." So I prayed for her. "Do you think you can hear Him now?" "I think so a little." She thanked me and returned to her seat. I kept worshipping, but looked back a little while later to see her filling her journal with His words to her.

During the week I'm busy. It is hard to have a genuine time with Jesus every day besides a short Bible reading. I'm learning how to walk with Him and be faithful in the everyday tasks of life, and to truly listen for His voice, expecting Him to talk with me. On Sunday nights I don't come to youth group with a huge revelation or extra spiritual power...I just come available. If God wants to use me, He can. And these kids who are struggling to walk this path and figure out their relationship with God, well, I can pray for them.

a couple of the youth during worship

Broken

Rough hands, worn face

Tired lines, blank gaze

Aching bones, back bent

A pain that stole the innocence

Trails of tears stain pale cheeks

Old eyes betray her youth

When "promises" flash all around 

Look close to see the truth

Strife and worry, fear and grief

What can mend a broken heart?

Valleys etch a weathered face

For too long it's been dark

Too young to learn not to love

Who hides behind the mask?

She must have been a pretty girl

In the mystery of her past

What made her hard and filled this sea

Of discouraged, broken dreams? 

What caused her to preserve herself

With sure, but shallow things?

A search for meaning in this life

A "why" to live or die

A shattered vessel, a million pieces

Do you hear her cry?

Fall away you old woman

Your time has not yet come!

There are still years to live and laugh

And taste the breath of freedom

A heart was meant to beat with strength

Cheeks were meant to bloom

Legs to dance, a zest for life

Eyes to sparkle through

Trade bitterness for quiet beauty

Shape a vessel from the shards

Others still desperately need you

A once healed heart is twice as strong

A Girl Writing

I'm thinking about writing...

Well, really I think about it every day, but that doesn't help much when it comes to actually doing it. I have faithfully kept a journal for years. I started a historical-fiction book in high school, but set it down after a year or so for personal reasons. Throughout college I began to write short poems on my inner musings. After I got back from Africa, I was determined to publish my journal. I was "supposed" to have it done by last fall. I haven't gotten very far. I didn't make any New Years' writing resolution for fear that I would fail. But that doesn't keep keep me from the desire to write! But why, when I get the time, do I dread it?

I read an article today that inspired me a little. First, commit to write at least 150 words a day. If you write 350 words a day, you'll have a whole book within a year! Second, DON'T edit while writing! I've heard that before, but it's hard for me as I like things to be just perfect.

I sit in the little nook at my writing desk. Something distracts me from my work at hand, a nuisance...or an inspiration? The amber liquid in my delicate cup carries an aromatic fragrance with the steam. I write a word...then stop. What is it I am trying to get across to my readers? I breathe deeply, and my story spills out from me like the ink on my paper.

picture by Henriette Browne

The Dream Deferred

Right now I am scrambling for scholarships for graduate school. Most of the times it feels like I'm shooting in the dark. I mean, how many other people are entering the random drawing for $10,000? What am I up against? What are my chances? Who knows. But..I came across something that seemed right up my ally. It was a short essay scholarship about relations between America and the Middle East. Well, since that is exactly what I want to do, to be a sort of bridge between the two, I grabbed at it. The theme was to be centered around this poem, which was equally fitting for my life story. I thought you might enjoy it...

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up 

like a raisin in the sun? 

Or fester like a sore-- 

And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat? 

Or crust and sugar over-- 

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags 

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Langston Hughes, 1951