On doing enough

I am the kind of person who perpetually feels they are never doing enough. (Mostly because it's just accurate.) 

With my clients--I see some of my colleagues providing far more release coordination support than I do, or are enduringly picky about small formatting or stylistic errors, or enthusiastically assent to client requests for tangential advocacy, things I feel I do not have the bandwidth for, and I worry I am wrong for that. 

With my kid--I let him look at screens, I let him eat sugar, ( I let him eat dirt!), I am inconsistent in my application of my chosen discipline method, I have him in daycare, and the older he gets the more I am overwhelmed by the volume of things I have not yet taught him. 

With my husband--I always click into the threads in my due date group polling women on how often they are having sex with their partners, looking for reassurance that my lack of libido isn't inflicting cruel and unusual deprivation of my sweet, uncomplaining husband. 

With my ideals--a friend asked me recently if I was an environmentalist, and, you know, I do really want to be, but making choices that steward the earth is a complicated and nuanced task. Yes, I use a bamboo toothbrush, but sometimes I also just really need to use a Ziploc bag. 

With my faith--ohhh, but this is tricky one. What is the interplay between our commitment to growth and reliance on the Holy Spirit to catalyze that growth in our lives? Grace does not mean we are free to live mindlessly and without discipline, but also, His burden is easy and His yoke is light. 

There is a furniture flipper I follow who likes says, "If we're not doing the most, what are we doing?" I heard her voice in my head as I twice sanded the cabinet doors I was refinishing, hoping and praying that this was not empty labor and would actually make the finish nicer. (But also, let's be honest, this is a lipstick on a pig situation.) 

But this is where nothing is a greater encouragement to me than my faith. The Pharisee prays in front of the synagogue, "Lord, thank you that I have done better than all of these people," while the tax collector prays in the back of the synagogue, "Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner." And who is justified? Those of us who are humble, who are empty, who grieve that we have not done enough, who accept that we could never do enough. 

God gives a glimpse of how right and just and bright and good and kind and free the world could be. And it is good and right to have a hunger for that world. But attaining it does not rest solely on our shoulders. If it did, how could I get out of bed in the morning, how could I look myself in the mirror, knowing I am not doing enough? 

And so I pray, "Give me the desire and ability to do the most in You," trusting in the mystical power of a God who restores in ways that are slow to me, invisible to me, confusing to me, but He is always doing more than enough, and that is enough for me. 

I thought the deluge of friends leaving the faith might slow down in my thirties, but it has not. Whereas in my twenties I felt a conviction that many of these souls would return after some time in the desert, in my thirties I am less sure. 

I don't wish to generalize about people's reasons for leaving. There are many. They are painful. I think I can even say they are legitimate. It is a little bit like hearing about your friend's divorce; you don't wish it for them, but when it happens, it is not your job to comment on how it happened, only to comfort. (Also like hearing about your friend's divorce, privately you look at your own life and wonder, will it happen to me?) 

One of my favorite praise songs when I was a youth was Hillsong's "None But Jesus." It echos the sentiment of Peter in John 6:68, a verse that has been my source of faith for many years, "To whom shall we go? Only You have the words of life." Truthfully, I don't usually enjoy the worship sets at the church we attend, but I was surprised this Sunday when we sang "None But Jesus" and the corporate participation brought me to tears. 

Singing that song I remembered praise nights in the sanctuary of my church growing up, I remembered kneeling at a wooden cross at the YWAM base in San Francisco, I remembered lifting hands in a stadium of 16,000 other people at Urbana, I remembered crying myself to sleep in my bed as a teen. So many flashes of what my faith meant to me then, and how Jesus was near to my heart. 

For many of my peers who have since let go of their faith, these kinds of flashbacks are bitter for them. Things look different for them looking back without the filter of faith. They remember feeling controlled, manipulated. The words are dry. The music is parched. I can understand a little, I think, because I have had seasons where I have felt something similar. 

But in that moment, for me, I was struck by what a gift it is to have these memories to minister to my heart. The investments of my parents, my youth leaders, ministry leaders, prayer warriors, my own investments, they were deposits in my bank of faith that are continuing to nourish my heart in times of sadness, frustration, and distance. What mercy this is! 

I warned my husband, "I am becoming radicalized!" Between watching The Trial of the Chicago 7, reading The Cold Millions, watching the news, and being an immigration attorney, I have sensed my simmering rage begin to bubble at the reckless, repeated, callous, and unrestrained violation of rights by governments. 

In particularly, I have been considering an Instagram post by @literally.noam.chomsky that articulated the following observation about inducing political change:

Many people seem to think that the process of political change through peaceful protest looks something like this: (1) People peacefully protest, (2) ?????, (3) Political change happens. In reality, it looks something closer to this: (1) People protest in a way the government is unable to ignore, (2) Protestors are unjustly beaten, teargassed, and shot at in a public setting by the government, (3) The general population witnesses the violence, becomes outraged, and sides with the protestors, (4) The government gives in to the people's demands on the threat of mass revolt.

The post concludes that emphasis on peaceful protests is really requesting that people become martyrs for their causes. This is partly the goal of one of the protagonists of The Cold Millions, a young pregnant labor organizer is distressed to receive bail, because she had intended that her imprisonment would galvanize respectable people to care about Spokane's anti-speech law. This is what Tom Hayden meant when he spoke about blood running in the streets--let America see the brutality! I guess this is what I mean that I cam becoming radicalized, that I am increasingly comfortable with sacrificing my safety or blood for what is right. 

But I don't know if that really works, you know? I want to raise awareness. I want people to know about famine in Yemen, about gang rule in the northern Central American triangle, about political prisoners in Senegal, about the injustices of the immigration system, about how scary and inhumane jail is. There is plenty of outrage and awareness out there already, but what has it done? I think about Pete Coones and Derek Chauvin, and I wonder what I'm doing with my law degree. There is just so much that is broken, and I feel really powerless. 

There are no answers inside myself. In church the pastor reads Psalm 2:1, "Why do the nations rage and the peoples plot in vain?" To my surprise I saw I had highlighted this verse, it must have been at least 3 years ago, but still I'm asking this, why? The psalm goes on to say, "He who sits in heaven laughs, then he will speak to them in his wrath." That same morning we sang, "Shake the mountains, break the walls apart, open the Heavens, Almighty God, You are Overcomer, by Your power, the oceans open wide, Your fire falls down, Heaven and Earth collide, Your power and Your presence break strongholds, when You speak, mountains move." The pastor asks us, "Have we lost our reverent fear of the power of God?"

I felt sobered but comforted leaving church. Awed by the reminder that my God decimates kingdoms. Convicted by the reminder that my God has already sacrificed his body to make broken systems righteous. 

I miss your tea

I think about my former clients all the time. What is really fun about being a public defender in a rural county is you get to know people, not just the frequent fliers but also the places they go, the people they associate with, and the other things happening in their lives besides their court cases. It makes me feel like a townie in the best sense. 

A few weeks before I left, I paid bond on a case where I felt the bond determination was especially unfair. This was a kid who had never been to jail before, and a case with a high likelihood of dismissal, and so even though the clerk scoffed at my naïveté, I didn't lose sleep over it. After he was released from holding, he came to my office and sat at ALR's desk and cried and cried, and I worried about what would become of him. 

After I left the public defender's office, I checked in on the case once or twice, along with at least a dozen more, but eventually I forgot their names. Whenever I learned of a not-guilty in that county through the listserve, I would text my replacement congratulations, cheering for the outcomes he had been able to secure for my clients which I had not. I never learned what became of my sad sap, but I hoped he was safe.  

Well, today I got his bond payment back in the mail! His case number was printed on the check, but the case was not in the court portal. I spent a few minutes searching for the case but eventually gave up, presuming from the fact that the bond was even returned signaled that this was was dismissed and sealed like I expected it would be. But in the time spent perusing the names of defendants who came after I left, I found myself so saddened by how many names I recognized. This kid may have dodged a bullet, but many of my other frequent fliers had not. 

On our evening walk last night we saw a fist fight break out. There was a gaggle of adolescent boys, maybe 14 years old, huddled out front of the McDonalds. One of them ran a few paces away, turned back and squared up, and no word of a lie, the rest of them pig-piled on him. They were pulling his hair, yanking on his clothes, punching his chest and head. I watched helplessly, torn between wanting to intervene and not wanting to be responsible for escalation. 

Because we had been out walking, we knew there were two cops just 300 feet down the road, and as a car laid on its horn at the kids, I willed these dum-dums to break it out before they caught the attention of the police. I realized that was probably a perverted reaction--I should have wanted some kind of intervention for the poor kid getting wailed on, but I was worried about his assailants, too. 

I don't know why I root for the wrongdoers. Why it's easier for me to have compassion on the struggling criminals than the meritorious innocents. In my rural county it was a revolving door of people hurting people, one week a domestic violence victim, the next week a pants thief. All people unable to get out of their own way because of myriad factors, but most likely because of poverty, and most fundamentally because of sin. 

We are all sinners. We keep passing through the revolving door, of hurting others and being hurt. And strangely, that's not necessarily bad news, because it means we have (for now) escaped the ultimate accounting for our sin. Our God is slow to anger and withholding judgement to just give us a fighting chance at hope, redemption, righteousness, that we might be healed despite the brokenness we sustain. 

My clients, they suffer. Life has broken them even more than the criminal justice system might. I cheer when they avoid judgement for their actions not because I condone their wrongdoing but because I feel in their frustration and desperation that the natural consequences of brokenness in this world are already taking them to task. We sinners are getting what we deserve and also not getting what we deserve every day. And it's perverted to think that our communal suffering is a form of grace in motion, but also I want us all to know grace. 

(P.S. That bond payments are returned to payors via mail months after a case has been resolved does a terrible disservice to those who have no disposable income to be bailing out. I used to think bail bondsman were a scam, but now I get that it's better to be parted from your money forever for less than to shell out beaucoup bucks but have that money enslaved to the bureaucracy.)

Concern

My husband read Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, but it was before we were even dating, so I didn't get the benefit of his audible processing of the material. My friend turned sister-in-law* also read Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and she got to me first with this message:

We each have a circle of concern and a circle of influence. If we focus on our circle of concern, our anxiety and powerlessness will expand until we are so immobilized that our circle of influence shrinks. Conversely, if we focus on our circle of influence, it will continue to expand until we have more control over the things that concern us. 

This blew my mind. 

Because how often have I dreamed of hiding away from it all? Just finding myself a spot of earth in the middle of nowhere, so I could live simply and quietly, not hurt anyone and not be hurt by anyone. Sometimes I just want to disappear. If I can't make the world a better place and alleviate any suffering, why should I even be here, making things worse with my shallow existence?  

Reading the news and cringing at all the pain in the world, both up close and far away. A client struggles to come up with $20 additional dollars to pay for the required flu vaccine. Getting texts from my former admin at the public defender's office about a frequent flyer client. Uighur people in China in modern-day concentration camps. Refugees and asylum seekers biding their time in the crime-plagued border towns. Families I love battling autoimmune diseases, mental health episodes, financial hardships, and relationship dysfunctions. The persecuted church. 

Bad things happen. The world is broken. We are broken. The only place we can go to escape the weight of all these brokenness is the arms of Jesus and the seat of His promises that He is coming back for us and He is making all things right. 

So, there is an escape. And that escape is not daydreams about traveling or backpacking, it is not the zany antics of Malcolm's family. The escape isn't online shopping or cooking or yoga or face masks. Not that any of these things are bad or wrong, but I am still using them to soothe an anxiety that they cannot soothe! 

The escape is in obedience to Jesus. In remembering and encouraging my friends. In taking care of my husband. In working as unto Him in my job. In praying for those who suffer and are persecuted. In studying His words and promises that I will not forget what He said. In serving strangers with my time and money. 

Only He can help me grow my circle of influence so I am not swallowed up entirely by my circle of concern. Only He is my escape. 

*If you are the wife of her husband's brother, you are sisters-in-law, and this is the dream of most friends, that you marry a pair of attractive brothers and your kiddos grow up as cousins, I am living that dream, y'all!

Dutiful

In high school I would lay in my bed in the dark, air conditioning blowing on my face (few things are such a signal of privilege to me as air conditioning), and wonder to myself why I was here: why I was born in the U.S., born to good parents, born into safety and comfort and opportunity. I was fixated on teenaged orphans in the Ukraine, and on teenaged refugees from Syria. 

How was it fair that God had given me such goodness and such goodness was withheld from others?

I felt strongly the call of Luke 12:48. As she saw me flounder with my direction in life, my mom would quote its charge to me often, along with Proverbs 29:18. 

When I went to Kazakhstan, I felt so much relief and cognitive harmony, that I was purposing my life towards giving back and doing something for the Kingdom with my privilege. But then I failed. I was terrible at it. Your setting is not irrelevant to your work or commission, but it is not everything. You do still have to, you know, work. 

During law school I felt of two minds about this. Teaching ESL was still meaningful. I got better at building relationships with my students now that I was back on my home turf. Or maybe my students did all the heavy lifting. But my future was not ESL. I was mediocre at it. It was not my goal. I studied law and eventually had to shift, leaving the ESL world behind and putting my hand to the transactional grindstone. 

Still, I found favor. Despite my bumbling and lack of inherent talent, the patient training and mentorship of other attorneys brought me into the good graces of those who could help me get where I wanted to go. I kept struggling non-custodial parents out of jail. But it was not enough for me. I got to criminal law--I couldn't keep these guys out of jail, but at least I was trying. 

I sat in arraignments, or in presentments, in front of judges who did not care what I said, if they did not outright shut down whatever I said, and I looked into the downcast or pleading eyes of defendants and thought, "They deserve so much better than me." I scrawled on my notepad, what am doing with my life? Why am I even here? Aren't I doing more harm than good? I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders as I packed up four DUI trial cases--all sure-losers who insisted on going to trial--and passed them off to a colleague. 

Now, as I struggle to provide any comfort to noncitizens caught up in a system that is fundamentally unfair, I ask myself, why am I doing this? Isn't this a waste of time? Am I cut out for this? On the one hand, expectations are lower in immigration court, and I thrive under low expectations. But on the other hand, the stakes are higher, and I find myself splintering under the pressure. Maybe it was time to give up and find a legal job doing doc review or contract drafting or something where I did not have to carry other peoples' suffering. 

I felt the air conditioning in my car wash over me one day on my way home from work and the Spirit brought Luke 12:48 back to my heart. 

The goal of life is not to avoid suffering. Not that suffering should be chased or embraced or called "good", but suffering is just a bi-product. It is pervasive. It will come to all of us, one day, in one form or another. And if I don't even try to stand with those who are suffering, can I even call myself a servant of Jesus? Is not a heart that is soft to the suffering of others the one thing that separates the sheep from the goats? 

What this means for me is, I cannot grow weary of doing good. I have been blessed so I can be a blessing. It is my duty to step into the opportunities in front of me and work at them faithfully until someone better equipped comes along. I can't shirk the challenges because my selfishness prefers the comfort of solitude to the rigors of defending others. When I feel the pangs of worry and stress, the answer is not to relinquish my work, but rather to steel myself against the discomfort, for this is my obligation as a steward of my privilege.

And it is more than just a mental choice to persevere. The emotional tax of this work is real. Nevertheless, my comfort is not within myself and my sense of obligation. Rather, my God will strengthen me to do the things that are hard for me. As I flex my muscles, He will fortify them. He will give me peace when I am troubled. And it is His love that compels me. 

Make no mistake, this is not to say that we should take on roles that we are not qualified for. Well-intentioned but naive self-appointed saviors have done more damage than those with nefarious motivations at times. Self-reflection, as well as diligent and disciplined work, is critical to ensuring that our efforts have their desired effect, and even then, we have to have the humility to recognize and repent of our failures and shortcomings. 

But it must never be fear or self-preservation that dictates our work or makes our decisions for us. 

Confession

I have avarice. I did not know this was the word for it. I did not know how to describe my fear of connecting with and investing in others. 

But it is true that I want to direct how I spend my time. It is true that I am uncomfortable with the expectations others make of me. It is true that I worry about letting people down, and instead of working tirelessly to make sure expectations are met and people are affirmed, I withdraw, I resent their needs, I resent their claims on my time and emotional resources, or I feel no guilt in setting boundaries that are too firm and too conservative. Too many texts and calls go ignored because, "I just can't." 

It is avarice.

And it has failed to protect me from the guilt and pain of not being there for others, because the more I distance and resolve to meet my own needs, the more needy I feel. 

But I have heard, that in His great mercy, He has promised to turn my guilt into innocence. He has promised to fill me with His infinite resources. He will make me enough for others. He will cover me when I fail them. He will heal the pain that inevitably crops up in the midst of closeness. He will make it possible for me to start anew, every single day. 

He commands me, do not be afraid. I cannot fear hurting others. I cannot fear being drained of my resources. I cannot fear burnout. I cannot fear their expectations. I cannot fear being tied down. 

If I can count on Him, He will make it possible for me to reach out. For me to build others up. For me to be there for people. For me to have friends that give life and not pain, guilt. 

He is infinite. He is everlasting. He is a well that does not run dry. Drink as much as you need, He says. Your weaknesses are not a problem. I can make goodness from your feeble and fractured attempts. I believe He really will take care of me. 

How to need people

I have a friend-mentor. We're friends who connect over the marvelous idiosyncrasies we share, but this friend is also a mentor who tells me those things about lawyering and being a new lawyer that you can't learn from law school or more experienced practitioners. I text him with some frequency asking questions about logistics and procedure, and each time I hit him with a, "I'm sorry to bother you with this question!" And he comes back each time with, "Of course no problem homey." After a few rounds of this, he once said, "If you think it is remotely possible for you to annoy me with a question, you vastly underestimate how much I value you and your friendship." 

Oh yeah, I'm like tearing up just thinking about it right now. That's a good friend, y'all. But also, you see what's wrong with me, right? I don't know how I came to think of relationships as transactional. 

This is my problem: I am a little bit allergic to asking people for help. And I recognize intellectually that this is a weakness of character: people need people, ain't no way around it, and it is a sign of poisonous pride to retreat from others into self-sufficiency. My parents have taught me that my whole life. So I don't know how exactly I came to be so squeamish about requesting time and attention from others. Maybe one day, if I ever get around to the therapy I probably need, I will be able to put my finger on where this flaw came from. But I have flickers of moments where my need forces me to be humble and I choose to feel gratitude over guilt. 

For example, I cannot even say how good it felt when . . .

A friend offered to drive me to the train station and listened to me as I unburdened some baggage I didn't feel comfortable sharing with anyone else.

My roommate rubbed my back and put her coat over my shivering shoulders when I got violently ill from an allergic reaction.

My other roommate got ready for her day a few hours early so she could drive me to the airport before work.

None of these acts were solicited by me--I was given the gift of active consideration--but in being forced to accept such gifts I also experienced how it can be a good and touching thing to be dependent on others. It is my choice, to feel good to be shown and to accept care, rather than to feel guilt for inconveniencing another person. When I choose guilt over gratitude what I'm really saying is, "I don't trust that you care. I think you're selfish like I'm selfish. I don't need you because I'm doing okay trying to be perfect on my own over here." Such ugliness. Relationships are not a fair trade. There is no balancing of scales and keeping a ledger with the people you love. If your heart is soft toward others, you give help and accept help and ask for help freely, and all those things are connected.

I often struggle with the intersection between the power of the Holy Spirit to change our hearts and make us to good, and our own personal responsibility to choose to do good. Where is God in those moments when I am too weak or lazy or ignorant to choose to do good? It was pointed out to me that I've neglected an important variable from my calculus: God commands us to community because we need other people to help us choose good and support us when we are weak. This requires a heart soft towards others. 

I want a soft heart. I want to help other people. I want to grow in my sanctification. And paradoxically, it seems that also means seeking and accepting the help and care of those who freely love me. 

Psalm 42:11

Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God.

The world is very hard. This week I held the hand of a man who just one week before could talk for hours and lived independently, and now aphasia has robbed him of his ability to communicate and he is too weak to feed himself. 

This week I sat across the table from a man who lost his health, his reputation, his home, and his family to violence and political strife, and now arcane laws keep him from reuniting with the family that remains in his hour of need. 

This week I watched myself, helplessly grasping at straws to honor my God with my words and my work, and I watched myself fail, fail, fail. A slave to self-gratification, struggling to wear my identity of freedom. 

I know why my soul is disturbed within me. The world is not as I imagine it should be. 

He gave us bodies of dust, but He will give us new bodies that will never decay. He allows injustice to leak like a poison into the lives of the vulnerable, but He will avenge all wrongs one day. He sees me flounder in my devotion and my faithfulness, but He will unite my heart to fear His name. 

He is my Savior and I will praise Him. 

How Frozen keeps blessing my life

It's shocking how many monologues I've been starting lately with the phrase, "See, this reminds me of Elsa." Because isn't Elsa so relatable?

This is what I mean. Spoilers for those of you who somehow have managed to avoid seeing this precious film.

Elsa has ice powers.
Elsa and Anna play with her ice powers as children, and it's all fun and games until Anna gets hit in the head and the doctor who heals her foresees something terrible happening as a result of Elsa's powers.
Elsa and her parents misinterpret the doctor's warnings and decide the best thing is for Elsa to put on gloves and hide out in her room to keep from hurting anyone.
But at Elsa's coronation she loses control and the ice explodes all over the party.
Everyone is (understandably) freaked out, and Elsa runs away.
She sings "Let It Go", celebrating the fact that now she can let her ice powers run wild without having to worry about hurting anyone.
But that freedom is bittersweet because Anna comes to find her, and in the process ends up getting a dart of ice to the heart.
In the end, love of her sister drives her homeward, where the bad guy tries to do her in and Anna sacrifices herself to save Elsa and true love heals both frozen hearts. 

Watch it. You will laugh, you will cry, it will move you. Promise.

Hopefully the subtext here is pretty obvious. Elsa is afraid. She's afraid of a part of herself she can't control. She's afraid of her capacity to hurt other people. She isolates to avoid that fear, and when she runs away from everyone she thinks she's found freedom. And while she finally experiences the joy of being who she is, people still get hurt because she never learned to control her power. The happy ending finally comes when love trumps fear and Elsa gets her powers under control. 

Love casts out fear. I was going to get that tattooed on my chest, had the design and the parlor picked out and everything, until I realized I was too afraid of needles to go through with it. But it's a principle I would feel comfortable having permanently etched into my skin because I think I need the daily reminder: there is no fear in love.

Unfortunately, fear is perpetually present in my life. Fallen world. Sinful girl. There's a laundry list of fears floating around in my head right now, temporary and long-term, superficial and existential, stomach-fluttering and heart-sickening. It is what it is. I can't necessarily snap my fingers and be done with it, but I can dwell on love. There is a safety net. There are strong arms. There is a love with a depth and a width and a height and a length I cannot fathom. And that love is shown to me each day. When I am set on love the fear is less crippling. 

The other lesson here is to control what you can control. Fear leads to its own kind of defeatism. I trend towards laziness and I find it leagues easier to throw my hands up in the air and admit, "I'm screwed up and there's nothing I can do about it." And that's dangerous grounds because it leads to isolation. And then sometimes your greatest fears can come true. (Elsa locked herself in her room because she was afraid of hurting Anna again, and guess what, she ended up hurting Anna again. Life, amirite?)

But we're not helpless in the face of our demons. Fear doesn't win, love does. For Elsa, the love of her sister enabled her to get her ice powers under control. No longer afraid of what she could do, she harnessed them so Olaf could experience summertime in one piece. We have not only the precious love of the people who care about us, but the divine love of our God and the partnership of the Holy Spirit, who is with us reminding us that we are righteous in the eyes of the Lord and that we have a promise to one day be whole. 

You may be sick of hearing little girls belting out "Let It Go" on the streets, but dayum, it's a catchy song. We are not called the carry the guilt for the mistakes we've made; we are free and can rejoice that no burdens weigh on our shoulders any longer. 

Take your medicine

High school is full of pivotal moments that you will remember for the rest of your life. One such moment I have been reflecting on some eight years later, was a frank judgment made my a classmate regarding picky eaters. She said: "Who cares if you like it? It's food, you eat it." This was revolutionary to me. This thought, so basic, had never crossed my mind. I remember my dad trying to tell me that I would grow to like Swiss cheese like he did (and sure enough, I did), and I was so incredulous. How could I grow to like something I had no plans of eating? How could I like something that tasted bad? Eating is really wrapped up with pleasure for me. I hate eating things that don't taste good. And eating things that DO taste good is one of my favorite things! I have cried over a lovely meal before. And, oh shame, I have written angry Yelp reviews in response to icky dinners. So from this perspective, it just didn't make sense that you could force yourself to consume something that didn't make you happy. This very idea seemed to defile the soul. But when my classmate put it that way I felt like I was seeing the world anew. Of course! Food is for living! Enjoyment is not the point, living is the point!

And maybe that's where I am right now. There are all these things I don't want to do. But, I do want to do them because I want to be well. I want to be whole. I want to be near to my Jesus. But, doing them is just difficult and unpleasant, and it seems to violate the soul to do something I just don't really want to do. (Maybe it smacks of hypocrisy, as well.) It doesn't seem right to seek wellness this way. But I think of the paralyzed man near the healing fountain and what Jesus asks him: do you want to be healed? I want to sleep like a log but I don't want to swallow the Nyquil. I'm standing over the sink with the dosage in my hand and a palate cleanser on stand-by, but I can't throw the medicine back. But I need to take my medicine. Not tasting bitter, yucky things is not the point! Medicine is for living, and living is the point! 

But I worry also that I want wholeness, wellness for the wrong reason. I'm afraid that on some level I'm just chasing happiness. It's like that moment when my parents told me that dinosaurs and people lived on the earth at the same time, but then I watched Land Before Time and just kind of forgot about D is for Dinosaur. What I mean to say is, you can know something is true, but also forget about it while simultaneously believing that the opposite is true. And that's how I've felt about happiness. I've believed that the point of life is not happiness, and yet I've lived my life to make myself happy, not questioning the validity of my endgame.

Ooph.

So if I really believe the point of life is not happiness, that the point of life is Jesus, then I need to live that way. And I've been having a crisis about this, not just the past few months, but also pretty much my whole life, because I want to magnify Jesus with my life, but at the same time, it's hard.

If I'm honest, I want it to be easy. It's not easy.

But at the same time, it's not the big deal I've built it up to be in my head. How many times has my dad rolled his eyes at me pinching my nose with the Nyqiuil in my hand and entreated me, "Just take your medicine!" It's not a big deal. Obedience is simple and silent. It is without war. It just is. There is no hemming and hawing about what should and should not be done, there is no straining against the conscience. This is the gift of the law, that our task is clear. And even better, He equips us for it. It can certainly be difficult and unpleasant and that's why I don't want to do it, haven't been able to do it. But food is food, you need it to live. Obedience is obedience, I need it to live. I am not my own. I am His.

It's not Scripture, but I saw this video today:

 

And what strikes me about this is that the acts of the unsung hero are not difficult or amazing. He moved a plant over three feet. He gave an old lady some bananas. He didn't even talk to her! If that were me I feel like I'd have to ring her bell and have tea with her and learn about her life's story and her family and then give her something she really needs, not just hang a bunch of bananas on her door every evening, I mean, come on! But that's what keeps me from doing what I'm supposed to do. I draft a mental calculus of excuses and obstacles before I step out. The unsung hero just obeys. And conventional wisdom shakes its head. But obedience alone doesn't make the plant grow. The hand of the Creator gives our actions purpose.

I need to take my medicine. I need to stop anticipating how bitter it'll taste going down and instead step into the freedom of wellness and wholeness in obedience to Jesus. To do His will is to truly live.

Riding the train

Back and forth goes the train. Back and forth. 

South Station, Back Bay, Ruggles, Hyde Park, Route 128, Canton Junction, Sharon, Mansfield, Attleboro, South Attleboro, Providence. 

Back home. Away from the loneliness. Away from binge-watching TV and binge-eating M&Ms. Away from the classmates and the roommates I bring myself to connect with, away from the church I half-heartedly attend. Away from the lifestyle I can't really afford and the change I'm coping poorly with. Headed back home.

Providence, South Attleboro, Attleboro, Mansfield, Sharon, Canton Junction, Route 128, Hyde Park, Ruggles, Back Bay, South Station.

Back home. Away from the dirty bathroom. Away from the heart-achy conflict between people I love. Away from the church in transition. Away from the boy who dumped me. Away from the binge-watching TV and binge-eating Nutella. Headed back home. 

I spend a lot of time feeling miserable on the train. 

On the train I caught the breaking news about Ferguson, read about human rights abuses in North Korea, watched footage of Boko Haram aftermath. On the train I blew chunks, my breakfast in the train toilet in the darkened car, nervous about my new job and how I would fare. On the train I breathed deep, willing my stomach to stop twisting on the way to meet a boy for coffee. On the train I wiped tears away, sing-whispering to myself, "So pull me a little closer, take me a little deeper, I wanna know Your heart."

I step off the train and the world grows so much wider. Here international students are consulting a map, there roommates are reuniting with a hug. There's a young family doing a head-count, and a couple tightening their shoelaces and adjusting their backpack straps. The state house looms majestic on the grassy hill, or else the smell of the ocean blows in across the traffic. Tall buildings and clogged walkways remind me how small I am. I feel like my life's a catastrophe, but as they say, feelings are not facts. 

I'm going to ride the train sometimes. And sometimes I'll be escaping from what I don't like about my life in Boston, and sometimes I'll be avoiding what I don't like about my life back home, and sometimes that train ride will make me cry for the weakness of my heart, because I'm a little bit stuck with who I am. But at the end of the train ride is always perspective. The problems are small but His love is great. My God meets me in the mire. My God fights for me. My God lifts my chin to carry me through another week. His is a wide, wide world and His love fills the whole horizon. 

Psalm 73 // Never Let Me Go

Surely God is good to those who are pure in heart,
But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
    I had nearly lost my foothold.

It's strange to me that living in a distant land doing something I'd never done before was easier for me than "living the dream" that I've had these past few months. But perhaps not so strange. It was easy to admit and surrender that I had no idea what was going on in circumstances where I was helpless to take care of myself. In class, in the grocery store, in the airport, in the post office, on the bus, on the street, in Karaganda I was pummeled by my own helplessness, and it was easy to give in to that. I needed help, of course I did. I think faith is a little like Florence says, "It's over and I'm going under, but I'm not giving up, I'm just giving in."

Here, in my "element", in my home culture, in a city that I love, studying what I love, doing work that I love, here I ought to have been comfortable, here I ought to have been master of myself. Here I should have been strong enough to do as I ought to do. Here I should be others-center, self-disciplined, industrious, composed. But instead here I have hated my helplessness, and I have counted His help as something available only to those who aren't in survival mode. Here I have struggled to duck-and-cover behind the shield of His help, I have resisted trading the shreds of my self-efficacy for His gentle guidance. But what can I say that David hasn't already said better?

When my heart was grieved
    and my spirit embittered,
I was senseless and ignorant;
    I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
    you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
    and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
    And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
    but God is the strength of my heart
    and my portion forever.

I feel the hunger to testify, to express in some sort of public way that my God is real to me, near to me. That my God is the reason I can face my students with a smile on my face, that my God is the reason I can roll out of bed in the morning. I have felt like a mess, I have burdened myself with the guilt of a hard heart, piled with doubts that I was capable of abiding, recipient of anything more than cheap grace. I am not capable. I am a mess. But my God is my helper, my protector. The only strength I have in my heart is the portion He has given me. It sounds a small offering indeed, but what He is doing in me is a painfully wonderful open-heart surgery. And I love Him, I love Him, I love Him.

But as for me, it is good to be near God.
    I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge;
    I will tell of all your deeds.

How to follow Jesus

Generally, I know what I'm supposed to believe. Sometimes I just don't believe it. Most of the time I know what I'm supposed to do. Sometimes I just don't do it.

I hear this truth . . .

• People are a priority.
• The Lord is always with you.
• Reach out.
• Fear not.

Okay, I get it! There are all these things I need to do or not do! Just, tell me how, cos I've been feeling either too empty or too selfish to do those things.

I love this book, Praise Habit by David Crowder, because it's about what Rend Collective calls the art of celebration, of turning your heart to Jesus when things are good and things are not good. It's about putting on the habit of worship, in a monastic sense, and also about making worship a habit. It's not a book about "You should worship Jesus without ceasing." It's a book about how to worship Jesus without ceasing. It's not a list of how-to's, but it shows you what that looks like. It brings you into Crowder's own worship, and in sharing his heart he shows how to worship.

True confessions, I don't like reading the Psalms. I feel like they're a cheap high, like the words are too easy, the feelings too relatable. The Psalms make me feel like I'm deluding myself with a faith that is just feel-good theology. They don't challenge me, they comfort me, and for some reason I feel like comfort is a dessert I haven't earned. Like the Psalms are milk & honey and the rest of the books (especially the minor prophets!) are the meat.

But Crowder reminds me that's total crap.

And I need reminding!

Following Jesus is hard. It demands the sacrifice of everything. It means selfishness isn't an option. It means devotion and dedication of my life: soul, mind, heart, strength. And I'm like, how do I do that? I can't seem to do that?

But I forget that following Jesus is also easy. I focus too much on the "should do" instead of the "how to do". And how do we follow Jesus? By grace. And how do worship in spirit and truth? By grace. No wonder I get overwhelmed by the expensive, expensive cost of following Jesus. I'm not cut out for this; that's why I came to Jesus in the first place. That's why I need grace.

And how do I live by grace again?

Just as He saved us, He will show us.

Grace ain't fair, thank the Lord

Growing older, I hate it. Sure, there's a lot to love about being in one's twenties: freedom and opportunity are at their max, responsibility and cynicism are at their minimum. But the Peter Pan inside me shudders. I don't know how to do this, I don't know how to be this. 

Twenty-three.

23.

A twenty-three-year-old is an adult. Adults are supposed to be responsible and do the right thing. But I am just so bad at doing the right thing. I feel like I get more broken the older I get.

And there is where I finally see how difficult faith is. 

It doesn't seem fair that there's unending grace for this screw up. It doesn't seem fair that Jesus stands as my substitute though I continue to make a mess of each day. It doesn't seem fair that such a fickle heart should have part in His precious gift.

That's not fair. That's not fair.

That's what grace is, not fair. 

Thank Jesus, my King, my protector and provider, the One who replaces my cynicism with hope, who makes me smile with the start and the close of each new day, for His mercies are new every morning and His love is unrelenting. It's not always easy for me to believe that, that I'm part of it. It's not always easy for me to believe that my particular brand of brokenness is no exception to His promise. That's what makes faith difficult, because it asks you to stake everything on a gift that is entirely free. It asks you to table the obsessive analysis of your own devotion in following Jesus. It asks you to just follow, and all will be healed in its time. 

I am broken. But Jesus makes me whole.

Little Gidding

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this

     Calling

In its own way, teaching gives me joy. Often I'm a good teacher. Sometimes I'm abysmal, and sometimes I'm just okay, but I am good at my job the majority of the time. And that is satisfying. But despite this success, I still feel empty. I am so awkward about seeing my students outside of class, or talking with them about things unrelated to class. I want them to know I care about them, I want to love them, but . . . wanting something isn't the same as doing something.

I'm reading through Acts and it is part of the reason for the heaviness that feels perpetually on my heart. I want what they have. Their singular devotion to building the Church by spreading the gospel. When all that time they spent with Jesus just clicks and the Holy Spirit kicks them into gear, and they are helping people and healing people and introducing people to Truth. 

A condition of complete simplicity

(Costing not less than everything)

It is an unending ache on my heart these days that I am not made of stern enough stuff to follow Jesus. I have tried to give everything, and I have failed. I give lip service to loving others but I just can't do it. Sometimes I don't even want to. I wonder if I am a bit like Simon the sorcerer, who believed, but to whom Peter says, "I see that you are full of bitterness and captive to sin."

But what can I do? Though I am much afraid of living by "cheap grace" and even more fearful of the challenges of following Jesus, I am terrified of life without Him. What can I do but clench the few strands of assurance I have with all my might, whispering, "Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful."

And all shall be well and

All manner of thing shall be well

Confessions of a wuss

It has long been a fatal flaw of mine how easily downtrodden I am by failure, or the simple disappointments of living. I don't have a lot of what the psychologists call resilience. I think maybe neuroticism runs in the genes. And lately, more than ever, I can't shake (transcend?) this self-assessment. That teenaged angst is back. And today especially, I feel like a basket case. For whatever reason, today I am overcome by dread, by fear, by defeatism. When I came home I crawled into bed and let the tears I've been holding back all day just sneak out of the corners of my eyes. Today I'm longing for wholeness but feeling so decidedly crooked. I feel as though I can see the tunnel looming ahead. I feel the warning, to hunker down, to take cover, to anchor myself, like a rheumatism lending those first aches before the rain comes. (And, I mean, that's the kind of thinking I keep freaking myself out with.) 

But the dull defeat of today unwittingly gave me a wish list, or maybe more appropriately, two fervent requests, things that I want so very much, with new realness and sincerity. 

The first? Gimme grace. Though I feel like a pansy for being overwhelmed in a life that is just so great right now, the reality is that I am overwhelmed. I'm going through a lot of change, and change is stressful, and there's grace for experiencing that. I'm back from a year in a new culture that changed something inside me. I'm starting a new job and a new school in a beloved but still mostly new city. I'm carving out a new routine and looking for new housing. Is it all great? Yes, I cannot suffer you with a complaint, it is all such a huge privilege. It's not that I'm justified in feeling stressed and overwhelmed. But I do feel that way. Does that make me a wuss, okay, maybe, totally. But so what? I'm a wuss. I am. It's okay. There's grace for that.

Which brings me to the more significant point: gimme Jesus. Though my pride howls, my regenerated heart rejoices in the steady revealing of my weakness. Because I am reminded, oh precious and painful reminder, that I need Jesus. I need Him. I want Him. I want Him so much more than when I feel whole and capable and together. In my wussiness I frantically root around for someone to bail me out, and who is there but Jesus? And oh fickle heart, what joy I have to know that wanting, that panicked and desperate desire for the only One who loves me so unwaveringly. The storm that rumbled around me today crept into every moment, and so in every moment there also was my life-line: Jesus, You are near, thank You for being near.

Lying in bed with the tears leaking out sucks, honestly. I don't like being a wuss, I don't like being neurotic, I don't being so easily buffeted but things that are so insignificant compared to real suffering. I don't like this frailty. I don't like this grim anticipation of a stormy season. But as real as this angst and stress is, so is the trust that it cannot overcome me. I need not fear. For when I am my own worst enemy, His faithfulness will not cease. 

Trouble is always on the horizon, if we're not already in the thick of it. Maybe I'm cynical, or maybe it's true. But, dare I bless the trouble? Dare I thank Him for the angst that has me clinging to Him? As Keith Green sings, "Up comes the strongest wind that He sends to blow me back into his arms again." And so there is peace in the calm before the storm, not that the angst won't ache and not that the darkness won't be difficult, but in the promise that my weakness doesn't change the fact that He loves me and He fights for me and He will never ever leave me.

Gimme more of that Jesus. 

"Giving isn't easy, but neither is the rain"

It's been a dreary past few days here in Karaganda. And between wishing I was on vacation with my family in Colorado, and ending my work at the public school I taught at four times week, my mood has borne an uncanny resemblance to the cloudy sky and the drizzly atmosphere. I have been cold and damp almost all week, both emotionally and, you know, literally. 

After a day of struggling through a lesson and struggling through a bank transaction and struggling through a wet walk to the language center, in mix of my pity party I made an "at least" list. You know: at least I had remembered to wear socks, at least I was able to get past the language barrier at the bank, at least got to sit on the bus instead of stand, at least I had a fun lesson planned for my adult students, at least the lilacs had bloomed and were smelling great, at least, at least, at least. 

As I walked I looked up at the sky. It's become a habit, because the sky is usually so beautiful here. Due to obscene amounts of pollution, the sunsets are a ridiculous technicolor display. And during the daytime usually all you can see is a deep, soft, cloud-less blue. But because of all this rain, when I looked up instead I saw blue-gray wall of clouds shielding any sunlight from view. The sky was a curious violet color and the texture of the clouds reminded me of a computer art program I had as a kid, how you could paint the sky in thick, puffy strokes. 

I thought to myself, "Hm, the sky is actually quite beautiful like that." Unbidden, the thought popped into my head from Elsewhere, "I think so, too." 

It reminds me of my favorite Switchfoot song, "Rain, another rainy day / Comes up from the ocean / Give herself away / She comes down easy / On rich and debt the same / And she gives herself away."

I want to pity myself. I want to wrap myself in my hoodie and sweatpants and watch Friends under the covers until I'm warm and toasty and feel medicated enough that I can finish this painful process of saying good-bye (for now?) to this city I love so much. I want license to withdraw, glum and moody, into the comforts of my two favorite vices: chocolate and television. 

But that's dumb. That's so dumb. Why? 

Because good things don't just happen. 

And yet, somehow, good things happen to me every day. 

It's no crime to be sad. It's normal. Maybe even good. Of course I should miss my family, and grieve leaving Karaganda, and repent of the stupid selfish decisions I indulge each day. And I ought to hurt for a world that is full of broken systems, and broken relationships, and broken people. But in the darkness a light shines. In the steady drip of unrelenting rain, there is still beauty. Grace still waters this broken place. Grace, those undeserved good things that happen every day. Grace, the hope that overpowers cynicism. Grace, the source of the joy that wipes out my self-pity and my lethargy. We don't deserve it, but it comes down everywhere and always. 

Grace like rain. 

The Posture of a Seeker

Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.

I've believed that for a long time, but I'm coming into a fresher understanding of it.

In his book Speaking of Jesus, Carl Medeiras shares the testimony of a friend who worked in a tree-planting camp, and how this friend started a group that read the Gospels and talked about Jesus. In essence, a Bible study, but it wasn't called that for semantic reasons. The thesis of his whole book is something like, evangelism is a lot more about loving Jesus, following Jesus, and speaking of Jesus than it is about sharing proofs, doctrine, and a defense of church history. He warns against the danger of leaving Jesus out of the gospel.

I really love Jesus, but I also love ideas, and so I am more often than not more entranced by trying to think about things the right way than I am focused on following a Person who is the Truth, period.

I've been thinking about the disciples.

Peter and Andrew are on the beach, and He says to them, "Follow me."

I take it for granted that Jesus is Jesus, and there was some strange look in His eye or manner about Him that somehow persuaded Peter and Andrew to be crazy and follow Him, but I think it's noteworthy that they didn't get some length theological explanation. Jesus didn't sit with them and lay out His whole plan. There was no, "So, hi, I'm the Son of God, I'm going to die for your sins because I love you, and I'm going to rise again, and if you trust in Me I'll spend eternity with you." Boom, gospel in a sentence, but no, there was none of that. Just, "Follow me."

And they were like, "Sure. Okay. If you say so." Presumably because they saw the power in Him.

Along the way the disciples are always asking questions. And I love this. They are always asking the same questions I'm asking. And sometimes Jesus is like, "C'mon guys, you don't get it?!" I love that the disciples don't understand. I love that Jesus explains stuff to them. And I love that there's still so much He keeps from them. They don't even realize that He's the Son of God until the middle of Matthew. Apologetics emphasizes that that's a pretty important theological point. Jesus has to be God. It's the only way all this atonement stuff adds up. But Jesus doesn't lead with this information. Why?

I'm discovering how much I want my relationship with Jesus to have the posture of a seeker. As in, that Christianese word we use to describe someone who is interested in Jesus and wants to know more. Seekers don't take doctrine for granted. Seekers don't do things because it's the "Christian" thing to do. Seekers are concerned with getting to know Jesus. Maybe because they think He's freaking weird but maybe also because there's just some strange look in His eye or a manner about Him. They don't care about the religion crap or Christianity's baggage, because they are compelled by a Person and they want to know if He's legit.

There's that Misty Edwards song, "I don't wanna talk about You like You're not in the room," and I'm beginning to understand now what she means. I don't believe in Jesus because it makes sense to believe in Him. I believe in Jesus because He has made Himself real to me. And I don't want be a person who calls herself a "Christian" just like she calls herself "libertarian" or "introverted" or "melancholy." Jesus is not another idea that defines me. Ideas are important. But He is more than an idea. He is more than a definition. He is a Person I am seeking, following, and unlike an idea that is a daily equilibrium, I want more and more and more of Him each day.

"Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me"

I like the risk in theory. I like the idea of stepping out into what is unknown. It’s been a part of my ethos since I was quite young, a middle schooler sitting on the steps of the State House talking to strangers, to do what is difficult. I’m one of those dumb people who reads about stuff on the internet and thinks to themselves, “Hey, I could do that.” How do you think I wound up in Kazakhstan? The trouble is, though my brain is all too eager to sign up for the risk, the challenge, when push comes to shove my heart is a shivering, squishy mess. 

The first time I ever went to a water park (technically it was the second, the first being Water Mine Family Swimmin’ Hole, but, let’s say first real water park) was at Walt Disney World’s Blizzard Beach. My mom talked us into doing the second-scariest slide in the park, and we waited in line with her, and I was all, “Mhm, mhm, this is a great idea, woo!” The line was long, and as we waited I congratulated myself with how brave I was. That is, until I had to take off my water shoes and position myself in the mouth of the slide. In a moment my courage evaporated in the hot Florida sun, but by then there was no backing out. 

I remember going down the slide very clearly, even though it was over a decade ago. I remember a bunch of water got in my face and I couldn’t breath. I opened my mouth to yell and choked instead. The grooves in the slide where each piece connected with the next burned my shoulder blades, and the force of sliding straight down so fast gave me the most unholy wedgie. I distinctly remember feeling disoriented when I arrived at the bottom, my brain was saying so many things at once. Things like, “YOU ALMOST JUST DROWNED.” -- “Get out of the track, another person’s coming!” -- “Wait, fix your swim suit first!” -- “Cough. COUGH. There’s still water in your lungs!” -- “Where did your water shoes go? HOT PAVEMENT.” -- “Where IS your mother, your vision is so blurry from all that water!” And other panicked, exclamation-marked sentiments. 

I survived, it’s true. But it’s example of how my reach exceeds my grasp. 

Coming to Kazakhstan was a great idea. The plan was almost foolproof. A place most people have never heard of? Check. A job that automatically connects me with locals who speak my language? Check. A year learning about cross-cultural servanthood before attempting to start it stateside? Great idea all around! And it’s been a beautiful time; I cannot overstate how much of a privilege it’s been. Privilege in that, the kindness I’ve been shown has been so great, and my deservingness of this opportunity has been so little. 

The idea of working in a different country is a fantastic one, but there’s something about the pragmatics that makes my stomach flip-flop a little. Sometimes I get to the top of the metaphorical cultural water slide and I want to bail. Every time we invite someone over I have butterflies in my stomach. Every time we go to someone’s house I feel faint. I steel my nerves at so many social interactions, waiting, waiting, to break through the barrier of my own selfishness into active love for these people for whom I harbor such affection. I came to Kazakhstan to challenge myself, to find obedience and discipleship and growth through risk, but many times, with shame I admit, I have baulked in fear.

And now I wonder if I am repeating the same with law school. Stepping still into the unknown because  I like the idea of it, because I perceive a challenge and a risk, but will only come out on the other side shell-shocked, proclaiming, “I ALMOST JUST DROWNED.”

I don’t deserve anyone’s esteem. I’m a coward. I am a fearful young adult who signs her name too confidently on checks she can’t cash. My knees were gelatin at the top of that water slide. My stomach was in knots before my first meeting with a student. I’ve written pages and pages of doubt and fear in my journal about coming to Kazakhstan and going to law school. I have never done anything good without being scared out of my mind before doing it. I like the risk in theory. But in practice it freaks me out. I have nothing to be proud of, because in every risk I have face-planted in fear.  

And how many times does J3sus say to His disciples, or to the people He heals, “Take courage” and “Do not be afraid”? Oh, feeble and fearful heart. Of course you can't. But of course He can.

Spirit, lead me where my trust is without borders.