"I know exactly what I need to do. I know what God wants. Surrender is required, yes, but I don't want to."

I arrived in Memphis with a backseat full of stuff, heart on the edge of freaking out, and healing just around the corner. Behind me was a semester of hard knocks, bad relationships, and a very confused family in a whirlwind of change. And I wasn't ready. I shut myself up so tightly, nothing was getting in. I was determined.

Saturday night, I cried myself to sleep. "What am I doing here?" "I take it back, no no no this isn't right." An overwhelming feeling of discomfort was settling in, and it was true. I was about to be really uncomfortable. The next morning, the sermon was on Micah 6.8. The usual preacher wasn't there. It was just a random fill-in. But it wasn't for me. Because Micah 6.8 is taped to my computer. Micah 6.8 had been on my heart the whole week before I even got to Memphis. God showed me. I knew I was supposed to be in Memphis.

I learned I stumbled I loved I hurt I fell I got up I walked tall I walked even taller I loved some more I was loved I hurt I doubted I cried I felt angry I felt alone I fell. I got up. I fell. I stayed on my knees I begged and begged and begged I learned I loved. I was loved.

And again, I am back in Nashville. God brought me full circle. There are no words intimate or expressive enough to provide the details. But if there's one thing I've learned is that there's no point in frantically searching for solid ground all the time when instead...I'm being carried.

paraphrasing this morning's sermon:

"they have a Brynn-sized [a two year old] playground at this park that we like to go to. it has 4 foot slides that i know are safe. but you see, my Brynn is adventurous. she likes to go to the playground for kids 5+ and ride the 10 foot and 15 foot windy slides. and i know it will be ok because i'm there. i am with her. i am the one that grabs her leg when she's sliding down head first, catching her before she hits the ground. and honestly, as she gets older, i would be devastated if she went back to those 4 foot slides. if she went back to what she is comfortable with."

you can figure out the analogy, i'm sure.

"You've already had that bathroom moment. He has already come to you saying, 'I am your God. I am a lap. I've got you back and can offer you far more than anything this world can.' Now, you must speak truth into their world. You may be the only one that ever has."
-Susan Rubio

Thank you.

workcamp

I couldn't sleep. So instead, I just laid in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and listening to the Galloways prepare for the beach. As I laid there, my mind drifted over this past week: Memphis Workcamp.

See, this is another thing that I have never been a part of but had to throw myself into. Crazy sounding, yes, but usually...ok always, worth it. But to be honest, I wasn't too confident about the positivity of this week. Monday night, surrounded by a lot of people I didn't know, I figured this was just something I would have to get through.

But then a moment came where it hit me. I look through human eyes a lot, and it wasn't until I was alone, covering up chipping, hunter green paint on the side of a house in a poverty stricken neighborhood that my eyes were opened for the first time.
I was a "co-crew leader" for a team of 10. Meaning, I goofed off with the kids and occasionally took care of some responsibility. And it was hot. And we had to scrape paint off of a house. On ladders. And there were wasps. But I will never forget this week. I will never forget the miracle and evidence of Jesus in that kids from all over the place, who have never met before, can come together and not only get along, but revive a house. From start to finish. I bonded so much with these kids and loved every minute I got to spend with them. But more importantly, as I put a coat of fresh, white paint on top of a decaying, old, chipping wall, I saw Jesus.
"He makes all things new."
And as I looked around and listened to all the voices crying out for Him in earnest on nights of worship, I felt alive. I felt incredible gratitude for existing in a place where kids are desperate for Him, and you can see it on their faces. You can see it in their closed eyes and softly swaying bodies. George said it almost every night, and it is so true. Hearing these kids reminds me of why I believe. I was so grateful that they haven't become jaded by the trials of the world just yet. That they can still worship and love in innocence and with their whole hearts. Because every time I see this and every moment spent with these kids is like rewriting my history. Mending my heart and fixing the broken.

I have been here (in Memphis) long enough for my nightstand book to collect dust, mail a letter, and do my first load of laundry.

It's been a long time since I have felt truly at home. Nashville, where I was born and raised, is foreign to me now. I'm not there long enough to even buy a decent cup of coffee.
Searcy has its hints of home. A familiar smile, the occasional fried okra in the caf, southern accents.

But that rich, deep homey feeling is not something I have felt in a long time. And although you may not think it, that has more affect on a person that I could have ever guessed.

But last night, hands were laid on me. Soft hands, rough hands, old hands, young hands. Hands with wrinkles that tell of time and hurt and work. That tell of memories, laughter, and a love for a Savior that is thicker than anything I've ever experienced. The moment was not lost on me. The elders wanted to pray over Cooper and I. For our summer, for our work with the kids, but mostly just for US. And I opened my eyes as the thought struck me. A smile curved on the edges of my lips, and my heart felt at peace. Peace. Something almost as foreign as a feeling of home. I was surrounded, physically, emotionally, mentally, metaphorically, by love and safety and warmth. Tears fill my eyes. That feeling you get right before you cry, the one that forms behind your cheeks and acts like it's going to take over: that's what helps me write these words.

Sure, I'm only here for the summer. I have no idea what it will bring, what God will do. But as He reminded me the second day I was here, He is here. And when all else fails, I rest in that. If nothing else, even for a brief second, I felt home.

Excerpt from Life of Pi, Yann Martel

"This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who don't respect Him-what kind of god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps, laments. What kind of god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son?

'Love,' said Father Martin."

I Am Second

One of the most amazing, powerful, and passionate things I have ever been a part of.

The faith of this little girl rivals any I've seen.