Pour poor, pitiful me…

This past weekend my sweet friend Krystal invited me to come with she and her boyfriend, Kingston, to his grandmothers house in a tiny town outside of St. Louis.  After weaving through back roads in pastures and hills we pulled into a gravel driveway and thirty pairs of eyes looked up from their Dixie plates and sweet potatoes to greet us.  It was like walking into my Nana’s house on Fish Branch road back home.  Flower beds were decorated with figurines of animals, and a couple of full sized plows that probably used to till their fields; the grandkids sat pulling weeds with tiny blossoms and either showed them to their mother or ate them declaring, “It’s fine!  It’s just a clover!”  and an uncle drove up on a four-wheeler looking for his daughter to go pet the horses.  The smells, accents, sights, events, and pretty much every other little detail were just like being at home again; at one point I sat listening to Kingston’s Pepaw snoring in his recliner and, if I closed my eyes, I could see my Papa sitting there, I laid in bed and listened to the women downstairs bustling around making breakfast before church and if I had stayed there, where the names were muffled by a wall, I could have heard, “Chrissie! Karen! Lindsay! Susan! or Nana!” being called across the room when someone needed something from the outside fridge… but I had to open my eyes, and I had to get out of bed.  And when I did, no matter how close to home it looked, sounded, or smelled, my family was not there.  I was a welcomed stranger in their home.  I’m going to summarize the feelings I went through this past weekend–Comfort, loneliness, sadness, joy, contentment, a few others, but most importantly, gratefulness.  

My family, as I’ve mentioned in my last couple of blogs, is without doubt, the most cherished blessing I have in my life.  I have been blessed with a family that literally rejoices and hurts together.  I have been blessed with a family that intercedes for whatever one of us needs it in prayer until their tear ducts threaten to dry up.  I have been blessed with a family that is so incredibly tight-knit and precious it is nearly impossible to leave.  And yet, here I am, 1,700 miles away, planning to head back to Africa where last time the pain of leaving my family, of being an alien, not fully known by anyone drove me home trembling.  The Lord has made it very clear to me that this year away from home is a time of preparation, a time to not only get used to being away, but to understand how much better it is.  I know Jesus says we have to hate home in comparison with our love for Him; this year I’m to learn what that means.  In 2 Samuel King David is in a stronghold, shielded from battle and says he really wants a drink of water from the Gate of Bethlehem, so his “mighty men broke through the camp of the Philistines and drew water out of the well…and brought it to David.” It was exactly what he wanted.  David was so blessed; so he tok the water they had gone to get him and, “He poured it out to the Lord,” and would not drink it.  David was so grateful for what he’d been given that he in turn gave it to God to express his gratitude.  I’m sure his throat still burned with thirst, but his mouth, dry and sticky, uttered praises to Yahweh and was satisfied.

The only way to really receive a blessing from the Lord is to give it away in love.  As I sat watching a family that was not my own bustle around me, my walls began to rise, thinking, “I’m not part of this, I’m just a guest.  I don’t need to engage here or get attached.”  But then came the Whisper that faithfully softens my cold, selfish heart, reminding me that I am to learn this year how to be away from my own family in love.  So I go to the table and start picking up styrofoam plates from in front of Memaw and the aunts, syrup covered plastic forks pile on top and Krystal grabs the french toast casserole pans and we begin to scrub.  I look over my shoulder at Memaw and joke, “Well since you guys got the easy job of cooking I guess I’ll do the dishes!  Since I’m the guest it’s my job, I suppose.”  It’s a joke my cousins and I always milk after a big family meal at home.  I step on the trash can pedal and the lid flies open, I drop in the plates and dramatically sigh, “DONE!”  Krystal is scraping away remnants of french toast and I’m preparing a new pot of coffee in the kitchen and we can hear in the dining room, “They just fit right into our family!” followed by, “Uh-oh, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not!” and hysterical laughter.  I’m home.  When we pack up to leave and hug everyone goodbye, one after another they say, “Y’all come back now!  The door’s always open!”  I begin to hear a lie:  ”They are talking to Kingston and Krystal, Rachel, don’t get so excited; they’re the family here.  You came home for a weekend.  Move on.” But before I have time to believe that I hear the Whisper in the form of a grey haired woman’s voice, “RACHEL!  I haven’t gotten a hug from you yet!  Now when they come back you better be with them!  You just fit right in here, I’m so glad you felt at home!”  And then an uncle, “We’re having a four wheeler ride next month and you’re invited, we have to work cows too, so if you’re really mean on a parting gate you’re definitely invited there.” We laugh and I remember… I’m home.

When we make it back to the dorms I walk in and a sweet new friend is looking at me from the lounge, homework spread all around her and she exclaims, “There you are!  Where have you been all weekend?!  I’ve missed you!”  I’m home.  About a year ago I sat up, groggily peering through a tattered mosquito net at two little chocolate faces peeking through the crack between the steel door and mud brick wall of my make-shift bedroom; they bounce impatiently and whisper to each other in Luo, smiling and giggling, wondering when their mzungu will get out of bed to play… I’m home

“…Who are my mother and my brothers?  And looking at those about at those who sat around Him, He said, “Here are my mother and my brothers!  For whoever does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother.”   I’m home.

I see her face.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace hanging just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

As I made my way across the southern United States today, en route to St. Louis my mind spun so fast that the 12 hour drive seemed to FLY by.  Not a chaotic spinning, not a panicked spinning, just an urgent, constant spinning.  And as I wandered into the hotel lobby this evening the butterflies that started a few weeks ago were still FURIOUSLY pounding away at my insides.  My chest is still burning; it has been for weeks.  Those butterflies, (which are probably better described as pterodactyls), have managed to keep me distracted during the day and awake at night, and when slumber does overtake them I dream about the same things I think of while awake.  Night after night lately my eyes snap open after a brief moment of rest to reveal the cool dark room around me.  Even though I’m back to reality then, it’s a reality that doesn’t sit quite right.  The AC hums, the fan whirrs, my memory foam pillow cradles my head and the covers are warm against my legs.  The room smells nice, like fresh laundry, and I can hear my family’s snores from across the hall.  The alarm is set.  The doors are dead-bolted.  I’m completely secure.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

In frustration my pillow gets flung across the room and I sit up, pull my knees to my chest and I just sob.  ”I can’t stay here,” I whisper to God.  He knows already. For my own benefit I whisper it again and again, rotating between, “I can’t stay here,” and “I’m sorry.”  I sit sniffling for a moment, taking in everything that happened:  I begged to go to Uganda; He took me.  I smugly assumed I was above culture shock and denied it was happening; I came home early.  I continued to deny I was in shock and instead of recovering and stepping up to do what I knew/know I was/am supposed to, I turned my face away from the appalling poverty of precious children I had just spent part of my life with and let it become someone else’s problem while I went back to my comfortable life and sent some money over when I could.  Not because I didn’t care, but because I was overwhelmed with the feelings of failure.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

I can’t stay here.  The painful longing for familiarity that drove me home in a panic is NOTHING… let me say that again, (with every possible form of expression), NOTHING, compared to the deep, burning fire in my heart, the SAME fire I felt the first time I met the children that would steal my heart when I didn’t even know it was happening.  This fire burns so furiously within me, yet without consuming, calls me back.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

I have told some of you, (some so many times that you’re about to roll your eyes because you’re sick to death of my odd fascination with Jonah), that I had a dream right before I first went to SLCC in which my Aunt leaned over a table and looked right at me and said, “You’re going to be just like Jonah.”  And I woke up.  That dream has haunted me.  I turned the dream over in my mind thinking, “Jonah is the screw up prophet that ran away when you told him to do this awesome job!  Don’t let me run God; I just STOPPED running!”  However, the book of Jonah, (like every story in the Bible), isn’t about Jonah.  The story is about God.  It is about a God who will take someone so flakey that when he, a prophet, hears the command of God to go somewhere completely opposite of his home and culture, he flees in fear and pursues his own comfort instead.  But God had a plan.  The Bible says God sent a huge storm over the ship Jonah had hitched a ride on that was so fierce, “the ship threatened to break up,” (Jonah 1:4).  So Jonah told the sailors the storm was his fault and in order for them all to survive… they had to throw him overboard.  The crew could see the waves thrashing the edge of the boat.  They knew that his chances of survival were slim to none and they even tried to protest, but the storm pounded on, so they did it—they tossed him in.  You probably know this part, the fish comes and swallows him and drops him off on the shore right where he was originally told to go.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

If I don’t confess this to you all, my ship threatens to break up.  It’s my own fault I feel this way.  I had the chance to love these BEAUTIFUL kids with Jesus’ love and I ran in fear, knowing darn well what I was called to do.  Looking back at what happened before, its easy to see the waves thrashing outside of this safe secure boat of home.  And I’ve already gotten the inevitable question:  “You had such a hard time before; what makes you think this will be any different?”  Nothing.  This trip won’t be different.  I am different.  I know now, at least a little more what I’m going into, and I know the pain and hardships that will come—the initial loneliness, the language barrier, the distance from home…the rats.  It’s worth it to me.  I can’t stay here.  No matter how much I love my family, (and it’s a lot), and no matter how much it hurts to be away from them or how grateful I am for all they are to me, my heart longs to be emptied in a way that isn’t emptied here.  “Now that I have seen I am responsible,” I cannot just turn my face and go on living comfortably, away from the orphans of Pader.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace hanging just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.

Now comes the daunting part, the inside the fish part.  Jonah had to wait for and trust God to get him where he needed to be.  I already raised the money for this once and didn’t fulfill my commitment.  The idea of raising $5,000 seems impossible and the thought of asking people who already gave to bless these children and myself once to give again, to the same weak woman who left in the first place is emotionally exhausting.  But then I think of it in perspective:  I have over 1,100 facebook friends.  We, as 1^st worlders, don’t think twice about dropping $100 on a pair of shoes.  If just 50 of my 1,100 would be willing to believe in my dream of loving these orphans and telling them how much they are loved by their Creator and our Savior… if just 50 people are willing to give $100 to give this a shot again, I’m on a plane and that’s enough to sustain myself there for a while.  “The rest,” as my aunt Linda so often reminds me they say in Africa, “will work itself out.”  This last year of school, (I managed to cram a whole AA into 4 years! hehe), will serve as a time of planning, saving, and praying.  The dread in my heart earlier today has been replaced with hope as the thought of, just fifty people, $100 each, over a year!  That is doable.  (Which means God will probably be extravagant and send me with extra for the kids too!  He doesn’t do doable too often, I’m learning).

The fact that God can take me, an incredibly selfish, and formerly sickeningly apathetic, woman and not only save me from myself but use me in a place which He has already shown me, shown us all, I can do nothing without Him, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever allowed myself to fathom.  If our God can use a flakey prophet like Jonah and a recovering coward like me, he can use you.

I see her face.  Her face with tears, her face with my little red heart necklace just below it.  Her face beaming with an astonishing grin of pearly white teeth and eyes against pitch black skin.  I see all of them, clapping and singing to Jesus in the red dirt of Kitgum.  And I’ll see it again, in person, I’ll hold it in my hands, our pigments clashing and our hearts full.  I’m only 50 friends, one year and an ocean away.  And I can safely say that this time– I won’t let you down; and I definitely won’t let our babies down again.

Becoming Elisha

From back before they even met, Elijah and Elisha’s story has ALWAYS been fascinating to me.  My obsession begins when Elijah, hiding in a dingy cave, hears God’s voice – not in an earthquake, not in a fire, but in a whisper, (1 Kings 19:11-12).  And when Elijah does meet his future accomplice, Elisha is working in the field with his oxen; Elijah walks up to Elisha and chunks his cloak at him…  So Elisha destroys his farm equipment and burns the oxen as a sacrifice, feeding the people of his hometown – the most obvious reaction.  After that the Bible just says, “then he arose and went after Elijah and assisted him.”  I don’t guess it’s possible for the Bible to understate something… but if it were, that verse would be it; for the remainder of 1 Kings and then into 2 Kings Elijah and Elisha are pretty much joined at the hip.  Elisha soaks in the instruction and love of the ultimate source of comfort in his life as he grows ever closer to God himself.  So I’m not at all surprised that when Elijah tells Elisha to stay at Gilgal while he goes on to Bethel Elisha says, and I’m probably paraphrasing here but who can really say for sure, “FORGET THAT!  I’M GOING WITH YOU!”  Elijah had become the source of Elisha’s security; the place he felt closest to God and totally in his element was at Elijah’s side, and now he asks him to stay while Elijah goes on?  Yeah right.  Elijah asks Elisha to stay put while he leaves 3 times, in fact, and every single time Elisha tells him absolutely not.  All along the way prophets have been telling Elisha that the end is near, at every stop the Bible says, “[Prophets] drew near to [Elisha] and said, ‘Do you know the Lord will take away your master from over you?’ And Elisha said, ‘Yes, I know it; keep quiet.’”

I’ve discovered something fairly recently and it was all sort of brought to a head today, reading my devo this morning.  I have an Elijah.  Something that makes me feel secure and in my element and like I am close to God by default; that place is my home, my normal, my family.  My personal culture, including but not limited to, the people and places familiar to me, the foods we eat and the way we prepare them, the smell of my house and just the everyday life around me, the habits, patterns, events and surroundings, those things are my Elijah.  My Elijah is about to go.  I hear the whisper and I hush it.

In Tanzania I dreamt one night of a Ugandan taxi ride.  I was on the taxi, on my way home to the orphanage, and I dropped my bag of groceries.  As fruit rolled this way and that across the floor I reached for a mango and an old man bent down and as he put the mango in my hand, still crouched forward almost 90 degrees, that elderly man looked right into my eyes and said,  ”Life limited is life lost,” as if it was something he knew I needed to know in order to be better at living and loving.  I woke up and didn’t go back to sleep.  I’ve turned that dream over and over in my brain.  And do you know what I didn’t do while I was in Africa?  I didn’t really engage myself.  I limited myself and put up walls on how much I would accept and involve myself in.  Fear and timidity set in without Elijah, and I kept my leash tied to the pole of home and all the familiarity that entailed.  I knew who I was here, I knew how to be…  This place was my identity.  There I was a mzungu, a whitey in the midst of an identity crisis.  Jesus should be the only thing I identify with.  The ONLY thing that is 100% universal is the God.  Only His Spirit was common between me and the silent, steady Acholi woman across from me and only his Son’s saving Grace was common between me and the children who have gone through things I can’t even pretend to remotely grasp.  But only He matters.  Only the fact that He loves us in such a ludicrous manner that He would take me halfway around the world to be brought to my knees, realizing I couldn’t do it and I wasn’t as independent and “strong” as I thought.  The experience humbled me enough for God to finally begin shaping me into a saint that can be used by Him – abandoning all other things that limit and tie me down, hopelessly and recklessly, in Love with and depending upon Him.  Only the fact that He used a trembling yet arrogant girl to bring a precious child to a place of safety matters.  ONLY THE FACT THAT HE LOVES US ENOUGH TO DIE FOR US MATTERS.  The only way to not be limited in this life is to identify with Him alone.  Not family, home, job, money, style, or denomination, not even life as is defined by the happenings around us.  While not bad in themselves, all of those things limit, all of those things hinder, all of those things rob us of real life as He wants us to have, (See Luke 14:16).  You see, if I am attached to something here it will beckon me back here; but if I am attached to Him alone, He will call me to Glorify Himself where I am and where He sends me.  All He asks is that We act justly, love mercy and walk humbly, (Micah 6:8).  All verbs:  Act. Love. Walk.  James says that is what real religion looks like, and it goes something like this:  ”to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.”

When Elijah is preparing to go he asks Elisha what he wants from him and Elisha says, “Double dose me with the Holy Spirit that’s on you!”  Bold request… But if God’s Spirit in Elijah was that much of a comfort to Elisha, why not ask for double that, both to sustain him and to be poured out to others?  When Elijah finally goes out in a blaze of Glory - literally, he leaves Elisha his cloak, (again with the cloak… any oxen around at this point are probably running, because it did NOT turn out so well for the last two when that cloak started flying), and just like Elisha asked so boldly, he got a double whammy of the Spirit.  I mean like in the very next couple of chapters some little punks were making fun of him, he curses them, and some bears come out of the woods and eat the bullies, (my Bible actually says, she-bears came and ate them, which I find much funnier than it probably is).  Elisha goes on an awesome-streak:  he feeds widows, raises kids from the dead, and heals people in the most absurdly cool ways; the list goes on.  Elisha used his former crutch to boldly love the people around him and serve God.  How can I do that?  I mean if anyone gives me a cloak I’ll just think they’re weird, so I don’t have that going for me…

I suppose I it’s something like this:  ”to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.”  I have been loved my whole life.  I can go love.  I will miss the routines that go on here as life here keeps marching on without me but in all reality, I’m not a part of this story, here in this place, though it has been nice to be so comforted by Elijah.  I’m in this with and for Jesus.  Though life here keeps on ticking with or without my physical presence, just as it’s ticking away in Pader while I’m here, my part of the Grand story is still being lived, right here, right now, where I am… and as my location company, and situation changes, that story takes a twist, a turn, and new chapter begins… and limits are shattered.

“Life limited is life lost.”  Goodbye Elijah; it’s been real.

It’s. So. Real.

“And the whole city was gathered together at the door,” (Mark 1:33).  I’m reading A Praying Life by Paul E. Miller, and in an early chapter he talks about Jesus sitting in a house as the Sabbath draws to an end and the people are “allowed” to come to Him for healing; He had just told some demons where to go- pun intended- and healed a woman that was, for lack of a better term, tromping towards that light we’re all told to avoid, so they were pretty ready to see what He was all about.  Miller, (a fantastic writer, by the way), says of Mark 1:33:  ”It is easy to imagine the street in front of His house illuminated by the soft glow of hundreds of flickering oil lamps.”  That line was meant only to be a suggestion to my mind’s eye to help me, the reader and seeker, better put an image with the walking miracle that is our Savior; and that it did.  It also set loose a flock of butterflies in my stomach and a flush of heat in my cheeks; my tummy is still turning actually even as I type… because it worked.

God blessed me with an amazing adventure not too long ago.  I haven’t really directly addressed it in a blog because I haven’t known what to say.  I honestly came back a little shell-shocked.  I begged God to let me go to Uganda, so He did.  I spent three months there mostly alone, (as far as American travelers I mean), aside from a short time with a sweet friend and time with my wonderful aunt and Pioneer Bible Translators’ East Africa Branch in Tanzania.  On this adventure He allowed me to bring one of His little girls from the streets to a home, to bring a little money in and send back to the orphanage I spent my time at, and to have a bunch of babies to go back and visit.  Unbelievable and undeserved.  I planned to wallow in that adventurous blessing for a year.  After three months I came home.

I came home weighing 100 lbs, (I’m 5’6″), from a lack of appetite due to stress and culture shock, and drained in every way.  I clung to every piece of familiarity I could and immediately said, “Well, it was a nice trial run, guess I wasn’t meant to be a missionary after all. Whew.”  And I stayed in that place for months, trying to figure out if I ran or if it was time for me to come home, if I was supposed to be a missionary or not, and- most of all- the vast differences between what I thought I was going into and how I thought I would handle it and what God really had waiting for me outside the doors of the Entebbe International Airport.  The difference in what I expected and God’s reality was this:  Flesh.  Scent.  Sound.  Taste.  Life.  The children I went to seek out were no longer staring back at me from the pages of a magazine, pleading for help with their eyes and a neatly typed caption and a dollar amount that would fix everything; she was now running to me across a busy street in Gulu, tears making little trails through the red dust on her face as she buried her 11 year old face into my chest and sobbed, “They kicked me off my street!  They told me I was no good to sleep there anymore!”  I will never forget looking at my traveling partner, an experienced international traveler and adventurous lover, waiting for him to instruct me.  Do you know what he did?  He sat down right there on the sidewalk and stared at us.  He waited as I calmed her down and he watched as Jesus allowed me to be His hands and feet.  There was no clear blue font floating in the air by her head telling me how to fix this in USD.  There was only me, a phone and some God-given connections that got Rita to the orphanage with me and into school with her old friends again.

I expected to get dirty- I had no way of preparing myself for 3 months of bucket bathing in a 2′x2′ tin square that covered right up to about my collar bone, standing in rubber flip flops because that tin bathroom doubled as a urinal and the floor proved that.  I expected to walk a lot, that was fine, I like walking- walking clears my head and gets my blood flowing.  I didn’t expect the constant gaze of curious Ugandans wondering who the white girl was walking through the village with the NEVER ENDING trail of children.  Oh, and my trail- I expected a trail of kiddos; it was one of my most anticipated daydreams actually.  But the problem is there was ALWAYS a trail.  Even if I told my babies to stay home, (yeah right), the village kids would fall right in behind me… well they’d fall in or scream and run from the chick with the creepy light skin.  It was exhausting.  I expected different foods, I dond’t expect, however to have to eat separately from the kids for most meals or to have them serve me instead of serving them.  I also expected to take lots of taxi rides.  I didn’t expect to be overcharged almost every single time because in an impoverished country white=rich.  I thought I’d be a gently approached, cared for missionary- [awwww].  Turns out I was an American, more unprepared and spoiled than I could ever imagine.  I’m sure to you this all sounds like no big deal, I can hear my pre-Africa self saying, “Seriously?!  God let you go love on orphans- IN UGANDA!  You got EXACTLY what you wanted.  So you sleep with rats the size of chihuahuas and smell like them in the morning. So you can hardly keep food down and have to speed-pee with your eyes closed because the latrine smells so bad you can’t breathe and bugs are all over the walls about 3 inches from your face; Pray and move on, woman!”  Yep, I hear ya.  But this is the MOST appropriate time I’ve ever been able to say- YOU HAD TO BE THERE.  You had to smell the constant smell of smoke in the air, taste the charcoal in everything, and feel the costant gaze that was nearly impossible for an outsider to decipher.  You must experience total isolation from ANYONE that speaks your language before you realize how incredibly social we were created and how difficult it is for an insecure 21 year old girl to stand there.  None of these things are bad in themselves; but all of them add up together to a new world.  Each of them reminded me I was alone, away from home and out of place.

You’re probably wondering what the heck any of this has to do with oil lamps… if you’re not wondering that you are 1 of 3 things: as ADD as I am, incredibly clever, or you had forgotten that I even started with the whole oil lamps and Jesus bit… well without further adieu- cue butterflies.  As Paul E. Miller said,  ”It is easy to imagine the street in front of His house illuminated by the soft glow of hundreds of flickering oil lamps.”  I read that differently now.  I no longer see the clean white robed European fellow on the felt board in my Sunday school class- you know, that guy standing by the anteater we forgot to take down from the Noah lesson last week with the staff and sandals?  Now I could smell the body odor that comes with large crowds in places with high climates.  I could smell the burning gas lamps and hear the steady hum of conversation in a language I don’t understand.  Spit flies between hissed whispers and pushy mothers elbow their way closer to the Healer so HER child can be healed, JUST IN CASE He decides to leave before everyone gets a taste of Divinity.  Culturally the women shrink back though, as men press past them, and they watch, cutting their eyes, waiting to see where she can fit just a little closer.  Maybe a fight broke out, maybe not.  Maybe people sat as they waited, or maybe they were too excited or scared they would be trampled to sit down for even one second.  Crooked, broken teeth smile at the sight of Him, stinky smoked fish is passed between the dirty hands of young brothers’ who missed supper, and raggedy dogs bark at the unconventional crowd.

You see, parallel to that scene playing in my mind an oil lamp burns at dusk at Pader Orphans Caring Project as I sit on a tarp, children gathered around me and we sing praises to Jesus, some in english and some in Acholi.   I try to keep up, making sounds more than words and clapping along, slightly off beat.  Behind us Mum Grace shells ground nuts and smiles contentedly as I laugh with the kids.  Eventually she comes to us and quietly tells us to go to bed and one by one I am bid goodnight by little hands and hearts.  Typing this, right now, I am trying not to cry or vomit.  I left.  I left in fear, having gone expecting to find the pictures from the magazines- sad but glossy, dirty but smelling like freshly printed ink, impoverished but redeemable with one monthly payment of $35, or whatever.  What I found though was a place in which I was countercultural.  I was totally out of place and vulnerable.  I was weak and able to help only the one right in front of me right then and that one only with Jesus’ Spirit flowing through me and making use of my hands and feet.  It wasn’t a place of $30/month solutions for me, (though I do sponsor a child through Restore International for $30/month while I am here in the states, and firmly believe that those sponsorships CHANGE LIVES).  For me though, as I came home and found a job and recovered from the shattering of my preconceived notions and limits, I realized I want nothing more than to be sitting on a tarp singing praises in Acholi.

So I’ll finish my missions degree in St. Louis so I can learn about my Lord a little more and soak up the time He’s allowing me to get used to being away from home.  And if I get to go back I’ll pay the inflated taxi fare because it’s just money and that taxi gets me to our babies.  And this time I’ll serve breakfast and eat on the tarp with our babies before we head off to start our day- whatever that will look like.  I’ll walk frustratedly along a dirt road simultaneously mumbling my annoyances and praying for forgiveness for my annoyance at the entourage behind me…again… for the 2386 time today.  And as we walk our way back from the bore-hole they’ll all twirl around singing and shooting slingshots at each other, as dry as can be, with full jerricans seemingly super glued to their beautiful little craniums I’ll slosh water all down my tank top and concentrate on walking straight and not laughing.  I’ll thank God for letting me be there with our kids again; not living a romanticized life, but living a life that stinks, strains, and sucks sometimes.  Because the moments on the tarps and bringing all the Ritas home… those moments are worth even sleeping with rats.

A Self Addressed Letter: Identity Crisis

Dear Self,

I hate to be the one to inform you, but for so long now, your identity has been wrapped up in…well… You.  In fact, you have spent the majority of your 22 years in an identity crisis.  There is hope for recovery, however we first have to establish what this crisis looks like because, as blatant and obnoxious as it is, it is also incredibly subtle and convenient.

So many mornings you wake up early to put on a mask- physically and emotionally- from a little glass MAC bottle, with daydreams of how the day will play out, critical mirror examinations, putting your walls firmly in place, and other subconscious shenanigans. You straighten and conceal, spray and curl, and strategize your outfits right up until the clock forces you out the door, giving one last shrug to the mirror saying, “well, this is as good as its gonna’ get… I’ll do the best I can.”  Without even realizing it, your heart has been being pulled into two different directions all this time:  You want to be truly Beautiful; you really desire to glorify God with your life and Love people to death, (death of ‘self’ of course), but you spend so much time making sure everyone notices YOU first-  You say you want to reflect, exude, and disappear into His presence, you say you want people to notice Him first and foremost in your life, but then you shine your hair and lengthen your eyelashes and perfume your wrists until EVERYTHING is working against the goal of Christ being noticed first.  You make sure that YOU are noticed first, so that you can introduce Jesus on YOUR terms, after people are satisfactorily attracted to YOU.  It’s fear, really.  You’re afraid of who you’ll be when you finally disappear, where you’ll fit in.  Trust me, right now as I write this I KNOW that He will make you much more Beautiful, and while YOU do not belong anywhere on this earth, wholly surrendering to belonging to Him will quiet those fears almost immediately.  I would even go so far as to say you will look back on this little lapse in Trust and think how silly and RIDICULOUS of a fear it is.  Worse even then your terror-laced shrieks at the mere sight of a frog.

And besides that, there’s food.  What will I, what can I, eat, drink, consume?  I know you-  really I do, and I KNOW you’re tired.  You think you’re tired of the pressures of social media, the tirade of photoshopped perfection in your heart and the brainwashing you’ve accepted… at least you do take some of the blame, admitting that its a lie you choose to believe, but I have another brain-buster for you:  if you’ll stop, be still, think, just listen and observe; investigate the real root of the tyranny in your life that’s breeding all this chaos- Its you.  You’re tired of yourself.  The magazines, TV shows, movies, and any other thing you see, do tell you that you need to be the thinnest to be noticed, you need to have the clearest skin to be adored, the whitest teeth to be admired, and the best clothes to be sought after… And you know what?  They’re right.  But you know what they don’t tell you?  That no matter how thin you are, someone, somewhere will be thinner.  Someone will have smaller pores and sparklier teeth.  Someone’s hair will be thicker and her eyes prettier.  And when she’s around you will lose all sight of who you are as a human being and as a valuable woman.  The Gospel doesn’t call you to be noticed, adored, admired, and sought after, sweetheart.  In fact Jesus straight up told you that you would be rejected, hated, forgotten and, most importantly, that YOU… well, YOU have to die.  Sounded a lot more glamorous bound in leather, printed in red didn’t it?  It hurts, but that’s the feeling of freedom.

I know this sounds harsh, my darling self, but please hear me:  I am not saying to stop wearing makeup, straightening your hair, and go give everything you like to wear away- you went through that self-sacrifice phase too, if you recall, and it only left you burnt out, 5 lbs. heavier, with split ends, and slightly depressed because that too, was about you- about what you could give up to not be distracting, but really, you wanted people to notice how undistracting you were for Jesus… sicko.  Both of those roads lead to emptiness, exhaustion and NO FUN.  What I am saying is this:  STOP IT!  Stop letting those things define you because, you stepped on the scale tonight and you weigh the normal amount for a 5′ 6″ girl- who are you now?  You aren’t trash talking the other cute girl over there to build yourself up by way of her weakness and flaws, because the Holy Spirit knocks you over with a TSUNAMI of conviction for talking crap about His home, His daughter… WHO ARE YOU NOW?  Your hair is a mess and your makeup didn’t cooperate this morning and, know what else?  Zit.  TIMES THREE.  WHO ARE YOU NOW, RACHEL?  Who do people see when they look at you and everything isn’t together?  If your being is woven together by all of those factors you will melt down from the pressure.  I have good news babydoll; your identity is not in what you wear, how you look, what you weigh, or what you drive.  If people looked you up in the dictionary of awesome, they would not find, “Rachel Christine Kipp: NOUN:  A thinner than average human being with a subtle beauty like most people only find on the big screen; she always smells nice and wakes up refreshed, not having to wear makeup, but she does because she doesn’t know she’s pretty, (which only adds charm to the mix).  Any man would be lucky to marry her, but she’s a hard one to catch.  See also, sweet, amazing, surprising, and Christian.”  Although that’s what you seem to strive for, silly girl. If someone looked up your name, thanks to the blood of Jesus it would be in the Book of Life and it would read:, “Rachel Christine Kipp:  Saved.  Loved by God and for use of communicating that to the world.  See also Jesus, Grace, Redemption, Mercy, Surrender.”

When people said, “I want to find my identity in Christ,” that sounded oh do Holy and I decided, “Yes… I think I’ll want that too.”  But it wasn’t until recently, after becoming thoroughly exhausted with and sick of MYSELF did I realize that that didn’t mean to make Jesus the top priority and let all my other stuff flow through His filter – everything in moderation.  It meant to get rid of everything else.  My identity should BE Christ.  When someone asks my friends who I am, what my being consists of, what I’m all about, they should be able to say, “That girl is CRAZY about Jesus.  He’s like… EVERYTHING.  for real, she’ll do some CA-RAZYY stuff, just because she loves you, and if you ask her why she’ll just say, ‘It’s Jesus.’”

This isn’t a letter of condemnation, Rach, but of HOPE AND FREEDOM.  This isn’t me saying go eat all of the crappy food and throw away all of the makeup and don’t waste valuable Bible time shaving your legs ever again, (if you do that it BETTER be between you and the Holy Spirit… and please, for the love, keep your toothbrush).  This blog is to tell you that you have, “GIVEN YOUR LIFE TO CHRIST,” and it’s HIS.  You don’t have to worry about it.  Your only task from here on out is to keep eye contact with Him.  Notice Him, Adore Him, Admire Him, Seek after Him.  That is what you were Created for.  As you do that your personality in Him will bloom, your makeup and clothes won’t be a mask, but an expression of feeling good and dressing like it, between you and God, not for the purpose of drawing the eyes of those around you.  Your walls will tumble because loving the Lord your God with all your HEART, SOUL, MIND, AND STRENGTH, will make you look more like Him:  Love.  It will make you want to go out of your way to make life full and fun and worth living.  It is not easy to do, it is a daily thing, sometimes a minute-by-minute thing, I know.

“Just remember,” like Aunt Linda wrote to 17-year-old you in an email, “to kill yourself everyday.”

Get some rest.  Love,

Me.

Roaring Like a Lion.

[There's a video at the bottom of this.  You should let it load while you read  Just sayin'.]

My last post was very Grace-oriented.  Mainly because I’m still a dirty little sinner pants who will always, always, ALWAYS be indebted to God’s unfathomable Grace.  Unfathomable… Baffling… Scandalous… and that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the treasure chest that is our God’s Grace <3  I believe by Faith, by Grace, by Mercy… in a word: By Jesus we have been saved.  (See Ephesians 2:8).  My Sacred Echo lately, (a blog in itself, but in summation when God wants me to really GET something, I hear it, see it, and am confronted by it again and again and again… much like an echo), has been Grace and what exactly that entails.  Like I told you in my last blog, I was going out a lot for a few weeks there, and though I never once felt as if He left my side I also never felt like I was being the salt and light I was created to be, (P.S. I LOVE Salt Life stickers because I’m a bikini loving, saltwater bum, AND because Jesus told us to live a salt-life… NOT a coincidence if you ask me).  The more I went out but still felt Him there with me, the more I felt like I COULD go but the less I felt like I SHOULD go, [ 1 Corinthians 10:23 <3 ].

Sunday’s sermon was on… Grace.  Shocking .  I came away from that sermon with a new perspective:  no matter what I’ve been taught, God’s Grace IS conditional.  Sort of.  It’s sort of a 2-step dance between God and us.  He extends the invitation and we have to take it.  For instance, God, in His Grace, warned Noah of the impending flood and told him He would save him and his family IF Noah would obey and build an ark.  Not because Noah deserved it so much as because God is good, but Noah did have to obey; the offer of the invitation was the offer of salvation from the flood, the acceptance of that free gift was Noah’s obediently building the ark.  Or Moses:  God said He would make him a great leader IF he would go to Egypt and throw his stick down and tell Pharaoh weird stuff, and face people that thought…well KNEW… he was a murderer.  Moses did.  So did God.  God extended the invitation, Moses accepted by obeying and God delivered.

I think I’ve come to realize that God’s Grace is UNCONDITIONALLY extended to us, but we have to act in obedience and walk according to His word as salt and light in order to really be able to grasp it.  God ALWAYS puts His commandments in place for our good, (Deut. 30:19, Jeremiah 29:11, Romans 18:28), and His Grace is no exception.  He holds it out in His big open palm 100% FOR FREE and all we have to do is take it.  We take it by acting obediently to Him, living the life we were Created and born to live, which, as Jesus said is all summed up like this:  Love God.  Love people.

The choice is ours and it seems so obvious- clearly we choose to walk away from the death God so lovingly but urgently warns us of in Deuteronomy 30:19, and choose the life He just as urgently broadcasts.  Right?  But so many times I’ve been so bummed out thinking, “I’m going to miss all the fun and FOR WHAT?!”  Because we’ve been shown a tragically weakened version of our Father, weaker both in the ferocity of His Love and the greatness of His Power.  So I want to share what I read a few minutes ago with you… because I’m still in awe.  I was just reading in Psalms and came across a description of our Father that SMASHES both the disappointed, looking down His nose over His spectacles, tallying up all our cuss-words and bad thoughts, version AND that pantywaist version that’s totally detached, singing Kumbaya and sipping herbal tea.  Psalm 78:37-55 is talking about Israel, God’s chose children; they turned their back on Him and didn’t think twice.  The text says they forgot… they didn’t remember His power which verses 42-51 spells out clearly:  He plagued Egypt so hard for oppressing His people they’re still spinning… He killed their livestock, he turned their water into blood, he even killed their eldest children – He took them out.  Enraged.  Ferocious.  Terrifying.  Powerful.  Business.  Serious.  Those are words that could describe God in Egypt… but then, as we are visualizing this father lion, hair bristled, mane shaking, roar echoing… Verse 52 happens.  ”Then He led His people like sheep and guided them in the wilderness like a flock.  He led them to safety, so they were not afraid…”  I can see it now, He’s fighting, teeth bared, claws ripping the flesh of ANY ENEMY that dared to come at His cubs, and as the enemy lies shell-shocked on the ground trying to get their wits about them again, He whirls to His young, and nudges them with His nose away from the attacker.  Stopping briefly for a head count, looking them over- everyone’s OK, good, a little reassuring nudge and their off to safety, Daddy Lion bring up the rear, between them and the enemy, gently and lovingly nudging them every now and then to keep them confidently moving along.  Loving.  Gentle.  Precious.  Concerned.  Close.  Tender.  Safe.  What a difference.  Same lion, but such a wild combination.  That is our God.

He holds out His open palm, Grace sitting there gift wrapped in Blood, all we have to do is take it and be obedient to this Ferocious, Loving, Powerful, Tender God who loves us.  And my friends, I don’t know it all, I don’t even know most of it… but I do know this:  Whatever it seems like we’re “missing,” we’re not.  It’s so worth it.  SO. SO. WORTH. IT.   Promise <3  Romans 8:18

“I QUIT!” “I Love you.”

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful– for He cannot deny Himself,” (2 Timothy 2:13).  For the past, oh I don’t know, month or so, I’ve been going out.  A lot.  I’m not really a big drinker anymore, so its not like the completely out of control ridiculousness that was my life a few years ago, but still… I’ve been going out with my friends, hanging out at parties and bars, getting to bed late and waking up bright and early for work and then doing it all over again.  That hasn’t left much time for Bible reading or just peace and rest with God.  I’ve been fishing every chance I get too; mostly with my dad or family but the last few times its been on Sunday… so I’ve skipped church.  I’ve been filling my head and heart with these selfish ambitions and not leaving much room for God at all, actually.

Let me ‘splain:  I have this ANNOYING all-or-nothing personality.  Satan has honed in on that and uses it strategically by making me feel like I am a big fat disappointment to God who is CLEARLY angry and disappointed in me for my less than wholly committed, double minded heart.  I give my tithes and offerings and satan hisses, “You could’ve given more if you wouldn’t have bought those Costas you’ve been wanting,” (true conversation, not being funny; and one of many for that matter).  Apparently I need to pray for some discernment because I feel satan’s guilt-trip and confuse it for the Holy Spirit’s conviction and I walk around wallowing in self loathing and failure for the good portion of that day.  Well this, “God says you’re a slacker and you don’t really love Him because you’re selfish,” thing went on for months and months and finally I said ”I QUIT!!!”  Just a couple of weeks ago actually.  Not “I don’t believe in You,” not “I don’t love you anymore,” not “I am no longer a Christian,” I would rather physically die a thousand and one deaths than EVER say that to our Precious God… It was “I quit this whole running-in-circles bit.  I quit being exhausted.  I quit trying because I just keep disappointing You more and more.”  I quit trying because I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing my God anymore when all I wanted to do, all He DESERVED for me to do is to make Him smile.  He had done so much for me all of my life on a daily basis and I was not able to show Him how much I loved Him and was grateful for it because, according to satan, I just kept giving a mediocre performance… WELP… THAT’S A LIE.

This is the good stuff.  Yesterday…ish, (maybe the day before), I realized something:  God hadn’t moved.  I was out at nickel-beer night instead of helping with the youth group, I was reeling in grouper instead of going to church, and I was spending more time thinking about ME than talking to HIM… but He was still there.  Anytime I stopped for a second to talk to Him or listen, He was RIGHT THERE.  I had felt it the whole time I was wandering around down here lately, this sense that He was still in control, even then.  Even in my mess, (and a willful mess at that), even in the confusion, my lack of trust that He wouldn’t leave me lonely, and my exhaustion…  He was right there with me, keeping me from falling on this slippery slope of a path I so determinedly hopped onto, thinking there was nothing else I could do.  He was holding me, protecting me, allowing me to run in circles, not pray enough, to fill my little mind and heart with things that had no business going in there  and all along the way He’s been blatantly, scandalously, and without cause saying, “I Love you.”  Over and over again, “I Love you.”  WHAT THE WORLD?!?!  I’ve been doing wayyy less than before.  Why has He chosen now, in the middle of my little Christian-coma, to tell me how much He loves me?  because that’s exactly how I would come to the point of believing Him at His word.  He didn’t need me to do anything for Him.  I was the one feeling drained and distant.  He hadn’t moved and His Love hadn’t wavered.  THAT, my friends, is a lifted burden- a lesson taught in a very different way than we usually allow God.  Surely He wouldn’t teach by allowing us to wander.  A lesson that involves beer?!  GASP!  I ask you to try not to be offended by whatever way He wants to work in your heart to bring you closer to Him and lift the limits set by our puny little human minds, however well-intentioned.

I miss Jesus.  I miss hanging out with Him and learning Him.  I miss His voice and I miss His face.  I miss matching His steps and dreaming about Him.  I HATE being lonely and God doesn’t like us to be lonely either; loneliness is the first thing He says is “not good” in the Bible, in fact, (Gen. 2:18).   However, I have also been reminded of something else lately:  Jesus is coming back.  And even if I stay single and if I wrestle with loneliness right up until the clouds roll back or I die, the day is coming that I get to fall at His feet, touch his face, feel Him wipe my tears off my cheeks, and sing praises to Him with my Papa, with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, with my Ugandan babies, and Paul and Silas; that day I will get to see Him smile right at me and I’ll get to say, “Thank You.  Thank You, I love You so much, and I’m sorry I didn’t always show that.”  My friends, on that day this short-term “loneliness” that comes from separating myself from things that take me away from Him now, will not only be over- it will be a small price to pay for a smile on my Savior’s face.
“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ,” (Philippians 1:6).

The Footsteps of a Friend

Ruth’s stomach tied in knots with each step she took as she squinted over her shoulder at her sister-in-law’s ever shrinking silhouette.  Their dear mother-in-law, Naomi, was persuasive by nature, but this time as she told the girls to stay in their hometown, find a husband and start a family like respectable women; this time, as she wept towards the dirt on the ground that recently covered the bodies of her two sons and husband, and as she snarled at God up in Heaven for their devastation, Naomi was not only persuasive—she was right.  When presented with the bitter truth that they could never go back to the way things were, Orpah took her Mother-in-law’s advice, retracted from Naomi’s sobbing embrace and began the long walk back to start over and do what was expected of women in her culture- but Ruth clung to Naomi.

Now, with each step away from home Ruth’s stomach tied in another knot; her husband was dead, her sister-in-law was going to find someone, probably soon, and start a family while Ruth was on her way to a strange place with an unknown future sprawled before her.  Naomi, glad for the company, said, “Sweet girl, your parents named you wisely; Ruth means friend and I have never had such a friend as you.”  Ruth tried to say something encouraging but nothing would escape her throat so she just nodded, wondering if her decision to accompany her mother-in-law was rooted just as much in her own fear of letting go of the past as it was for her namesake.  Either way, she took the next step, then another, her footsteps falling in synch with those of her mother-in law’s until suddenly she looked up and there it was:  Judah.

Ruth immediately began gathering wheat to provide for Naomi and occupy her time.  It was hard work, but she did it.  Each day she went to work, meticulously plucking grain then taking a step, then another, her footsteps falling in synch with the sheaves hitting her basket.  Each step forward was one ahead of the terrible reality of her situation, and it numbed the pain for a while.  Eventually, though, the sun would set and she had to lie down alone, no wheat to glean, no pointless conversation to fill the silence- just her.  Her heartbeat.  Her breath. Lonely and deafened by the silence, she wept, tossing and turning, and begging Yahweh to speed up the rising of the sun.  Her desperation brought about diligence, though, and it was not overlooked by the landowner, who happened to be in the field surveying his crop that day.

“Who is she?” Boaz asked his property manager, never taking his eyes off the young woman. “The widow of your family member, master,” he replied, “She came back from Moab to care for Naomi.”  Boaz had already taken one step towards her, then another, his footsteps falling in synch with hers.  When he approached her he didn’t waste any time, blurting, “don’t leave here; I can guarantee your safety and that you glean more than enough wheat.  Just don’t… don’t leave here.”  Taken aback by the sudden kindness, Ruth fell to the ground in front of him, crying, exclaiming that she didn’t deserve his kindness.  Unshaken, Boaz pulled her up from the soil and after staying to have lunch with her, he sent Ruth home with some leftover grain, a safe place to work, and a strange new sort of hope.  On her way home Ruth practiced in her head how she would tell Naomi about her blessing, but Naomi ended up telling Ruth just what a blessing it really was. “Boaz is more than just a kind landowner,” Naomi informed her, “if he is willing he is next in line to take your hand in marriage!”

As Ruth lay in bed that night she thought of Orpah.  Her sister-in-law had done a brave thing, going back to start over in a place that represented so much pain.  She had chosen to put herself back into a vulnerable position, open again to heartbreak and rejection.  She imagined Orpah playing the dating game, applying perfume and getting dressed up, making a point to attend every social event and mingle, knowing that it was expected of her to be a wife, mother, and friend.  She was being proactive, while Ruth did what she could at the time.  She wasn’t ready to search for a spouse; she knew it was the weaker of the two options but she chose to stick with who she knew- her mother-in-law, and heal.  No parties for her, no purple robes, or makeup, or myrrh; just work, friendship, prayer, and sweat from working day in and day out to stay busy and distracted.  And yet, she was almost certain she saw Boaz ringing his hands nervously as he spoke to her.  ”Maybe I’m just naive,” she thought to herself, “but I think I caught him staring over lunch more than once… I wonder if there was something on my face…” but before she could ponder it farther, she drifted into a deep peaceful sleep.

Day after day for the rest of the harvest season Ruth gleaned in Boaz’s fields, noticing he suddenly took more interest in monitoring what was happening there than he had before.  He came out more often to supervise, he spoke kindly to her, he smiled sweetly.  Naomi must have noticed her daughter-in-law’s countenance change, she must have noticed that ruth was humming again as she washed clothes, and, laughing more deeply.  She must have noticed these things because when season was drawing closer to its end Naomi told Ruth what she had secretly been hoping for for weeks:  ”Daughter of mine, you need some rest; you need happiness again.  Instead of searching for a husband for yourself you stayed by my side in my time of anguish and did what you had to:  you worked, you prayed, and you lived.  Now our God has seen and has brought him, the man that can change everything to you—do what I tell you, my dear friend.”

On the way to Boaz’s house to follow Naomi’s detailed instructions Ruth felt the all too familiar knotted stomach.  ”What if he doesn’t like me, that way,” she thought, “what if he really is just being kind because he admires my love for Naomi.”  She stopped walking, her heart pounding, “Stupid girl,” her head yelled at her heart, “I haven’t ever even tried!  I haven’t looked beautiful in front of him, I’ve looked like a field worker.  I’m not of any consequence around here, I’m a widowed foreigner!  I should just go back now…” but her feet didn’t listen.  She took one step, then another, her steps falling in synch with her pounding heart, right up the stairs of him home and to his side.  Opening his eyes, squinting into the dark through his sleep, Boaz realized who was standing before him.  He sprung to his knees, taking her hand.  She was beautiful even covered in dirt and sweat, but now she stood before him having put so much effort into her presentation—for him!  Her eyes were lined and her dress was lovely, there was even a hint of perfume in the air around her.  One look at his face upon seeing her and she knew she wasn’t naive at all.  She chose not to go back to her hometown, following a path that may have been paved by fear, but she did it with all of her heart and God took care of her.  After what seemed like no time at all Ruth found her stomach in knots again as she walked toward the man waiting to call her his wife.  She took a step forward, then another, her steps falling in synch with the clapping of their friends and family.  With a vow and a kiss a beautiful life born from providence began, and step-by-step Yahweh led her by the hand.

Now, after some months had passed she experienced a little of what Her Heavenly Father must have felt watching her grow… Because as she sat across the room sifting wheat and thinking over her life, her husband held the hands of her baby boy took as he took his first step, then another… and his footsteps fell in synch with her heart.

Naomi – The Pleasant Bitterness

I’ve recently fallen in love with the book of Ruth because it’s not really about Ruth.  It’s about God’s providence and love and Divine Plan.  As I read it 3 or 4 times each time I happened to focus in on each character and what they were probably feeling… Naomi first; so this is my retelling from her point of view, (of course since I added thoughts and conversations this is now fiction but its still based on how I think, as a woman, theses women may have felt).  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!  [This one's actually short, believe it or not Next up, Orpah!]

The Pleasant Bitterness

When they arrived back to Judah, the women greeted Naomi by name, sending a chill down her spine.  “Don’t call me Pleasant,” she hissed through her tears, “call me Mara—Bitter; it’s a better description of the hand the Lord has dealt me!”  If anyone had a right to be bitter it was Naomi; her life was laced with tragedy.  She replayed the events in her mind—the famine throughout Judah that drove she and her husband to Moab, and her husband’s death that left her with two boys to care for.  There was that glimmer of joy when her boys married Orpah and Ruth, Moabite women she loved so much, but then as quickly as it appeared the joy vanished when her sons died too.   At the end of herself Naomi decided to head back to Judah to live out her days as a widow—lonely but at least she’d be at home.  Ruth squeezed Naomi’s hand, bringing her back from her daydream.  Though she’d tried everything to convince Ruth to stay, Naomi was glad to have her daughter-in-law with her; the widows shared an unfortunate bond—painful but deep.

Over the next few weeks Ruth went and gleaned in the fields, bringing home the grain the harvesters missed;  this day, though, was different.  Ruth came in with 22 liters of barley, as well as some toasted grain that had been left over from lunch!  ”Where did you get all of this,” Naomi gasped, running her hands through the barley.  ”A kind man let me work in his field and dine with him,” Ruth said, staring at the grain.  She picked a piece up and rolled it between her fingers, “His name is Boaz.”   As hard as it was for Naomi to believe the grain sitting in her kitchen, it was even more astonishing that the provisions came from a kinsman redeemer of the family, as well as an invitation for Ruth to go back and glean in his fields for the rest of the season.

Ruth did go back, and day after day she gleaned and was watched over; Naomi silently watching her daughter-in-law’s face light up as she told of each day’s new kindness and relayed Boaz’s tales of recent business trips, bragged on the taste of the wine served at lunch and, of course- the way he spoke and listened so intently when Ruth was in the room.  Finally Naomi could take it no longer, “You must go to him, my child – he is clearly smitten with you… and the shades of pink that crawl across your cheeks when you speak of him betray your own affections- I have not seen you look like that since your wedding day in Moab!  Now take my advice, sweet girl and go to him…” Naomi went on, explaining the necessary customs, pretending not to notice Ruth’s face turning  from pink to red, as she fidgeted with her hair and traced restless fingers across the seams of her dress.  When Naomi finished instructing Ruth, she excused her from the room to clean up, and as Ruth rose Naomi saw the smile that she loved so dearly spread across her daughter-in-law’s face…

An aging Naomi allowed her thoughts to wander as she stared at the child sleeping on her lap, it seemed like just yesterday Ruth was beaming with hope because the man she met in the field, Boaz, had searched out the necessary people, made the necessary arrangements, and took her hand in marriage.  And now, a baby boy sat in her lap, filling places rendered cold years ago with a warmth unimaginable by anyone other than a grandmother.  The neighborhood women swooned over the newest family member, declaring in their joy, “Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you this day without a redeemer, and may his name be renowned in Israel!  He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age, for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has given birth to him!”  The ladies called the child a worshipper—naming him Obed, and as Naomi stared into her little grandson’s face she realized that with a daughter-in-law who loved her so much, and now and new little man to watch grow, she finally had lasting joy.  The tragedy and pain that paved the road to this place had left her scarred and though it wasn’t gone, the joy she had in that moment balanced it all out so that not only was she joyful in the Lord and His plan, she was happy in the here-and-now; she was in the beginning of her happy ending.

Little did anyone know though, that Naomi’s happy ending extended far beyond the child and the joy he brought in his giggles and coos… for Obed grew into a strong man physically and spiritually and had his own son whom he named gift.  And when Jesse grew he too had a family—he named his youngest son David, who God named king.

Spiritual Bra Straps, Literal Dentistry, and Other Scary Things

A couple weeks back an old filling in my back tooth came out.  I ignored it.  Yesterday I enlisted said tooth’s help to eat a pretzel.  CRACK.  My semi hollow tooth couldn’t stand up to the crunchy, salty, Rolled Gold goodness…well, that or it was tired of my sugar abuse and decided to strike back… either way- my molar split in two.  It felt as good as it sounds.  In order for you to understand the depth of my dilemma, now would probably mention that I have 3 great fears in this life, (possibly 4, but the verdict is still out on the last one, so I’m not listing it).  They are, in no particular order:  frogs, total self-absorbtion, and the dentist.

[YO.  This paragraph just explains the unfortunate experience that bred my severe dental apprehension; feel free to skip it, but it's kind of a funny story.]  When I was about 16 I had a bad experience with a deep filling; it can be summarized like this:  my love of all things sweet + hereditarily soft teeth = cavities of the go big or go home type.  The Novocaine didn’t go as deep as the nerve – but the drill did. Reflexes kicked in, I lurched forward in shock, and by the end of the appointment I was literally quivering from the pain/fear and crying/apologizing for making my WONDERFUL dentist feel bad to the best of my half numbed ability.  He walked me to the waiting room and I stared at the floor while he compared the drill’s relationship with my soft tooth to a, “hot knife cutting through butter,” and told my darling mother, “you may want to get her some ibuprofen for tonight and Xanax before her next visit; the nurse will schedule you on the way out.”  So now I ONLY go to the dentist when forced, (small town gift/curse:  your dentist &/or Dental assistant probably goes to your church, is part of your family, or follows you on Facebook.  All 3 of those are true for me so there is no escaping the appointments).  Furthermore I go to my dentist ONLY; we have a sort of twisted, mutilated tooth hypersensitivity bond.

[OK, back to the face-rocking realization that inspired this blog post]:  A good friend texted me today with a simple question:  ”Hey. How’s the tooth?”  My reply:  ”Surprisingly manageable.  Fear is the ultimate painkiller.”

Whoa.  I started rolling that around my head and realizing how often that statement proved true in my life.  Take my tooth/dentist conundrum for example:  the tooth hurts but my fear of the dentist greatly outweighs the ache, allowing me to deal.  Dating is another prime personal example:  sometimes it hurts to be single; not always, but sometimes, I’m lonely and just wish I had a boyfriend.  But I’m scared of being hurt or betrayed and that fear so far outweighs the “pain” of being alone that its almost numbed, not completely, but enough to be easily managed. [The fact that I have yet to find a boy who I prefer to spend time with over being on the ocean is another facotr in my singleness, but that's a whole 'nother blog!  Hehe].

I won’t ignore my throbbing back tooth, take enough drugs to silence the pain and just keep chewing like nothing’s wrong.  Something is clearly wrong, or it wouldn’t hurt so darn much.  The Holy Spirit is constantly  refining us by conviction, keeping us in a state of Holy Discontent*.  Searing our hearts, it clearly communicates that something needs to change, crying, “there’s more!”  I think that we, as humans, are going to be afraid sometimes, but I don’t think that we, as Christians, should allow our fear to stifle the Sprit-induced pangs, and keep walking along like nothing’s wrong.  Nothing should be able to override the call of God in our lives, not our families, not our jobs, not our friends, and especially not our fear.  Admittedly, even though we know pain is for our good- to help us know when something’s gone awry- it is easier to just medicate the problem:  feeling pain – let the meds quiet it; feeling convicted – let fear.  Eventually, though, medication can’t overcome the pain of the extensive damage of an ignored wound – and eventually the paralyzing effects of our fear is surpassed by the intensity of the spiritual discomfort that it once silenced. *[My aunt and I call this, (reverently, of course), our Spiritual bra strap.  Why?  Because - girls back me up here - no matter how cute or comfortable your clothes are, if your bra strap gets twisted it will bug you to the point of walking to the nearest bathroom and grabbing the first female you can find to help you attend to that little booger.  Not calling the Lord a "little booger," DEFINITELY calling twisted bra straps that though].

I’ve learned quite a bit in my 22 years, mostly gracious lessons God teaches me from my own idiocy, but some just comes with living.  One thing I know just from living is that one can sit straight, slouch, rub your shoulders across the chair back, rotate them like you’re a New York Yankee about to bat, pretend to scratch your back - whatever; you will remain uncomfortable until you get off your butt and go fix the bra strap!  And one thing God explained to me today, via His Grace and my idiotic plan to put off a necessary dentist visit, is that fear is often a strong enough force to temporarily outweigh the discomfort in my life, causing me to cower or delay action; just like prescriptions can temporarily stifle the pain of an injury allowing surgery to be put off for a while.  But the pain is there to let me know that I can do something to better myself- physically I can get my tooth filled and I’ll be able to eat better.  Spiritually I can let the Spirit refine me, getting rid of the old and bringing in the new, and I’ll be able to love better.  God wants all of us – all of me.  I can put off the life-saving open heart surgery for a while because I’m afraid, but the longer the problem is ignored, the stronger the need to fix it becomes.  When my fear is finally too weak to be the voice that shouts louder than my conviction, I surrender to Him and step across the threshold of my comfort zone, where, I have heard, life begins.