.And Yet I Write.

[source]

It ebbs and flows through us all. It is a part of us. None of us can escape it, and we all love a good one. It's the link from the beginning of time, and we all live it every single day - a story. Each of us is inside one, and our one connects with his one and her one and the ultimate One. We are all story tellers, proclaiming our story with paint, with pencil, with a keyboard, with lips, with life, with the stage, with a podium, in front of a classroom, in front of our children, in churches, backyards, grocery stores, and songs. Our story is ever-changing, growing, developing, and maturing. We were born to tell our story, because the broken pieces of our story are exactly what He uses to make His story known.

For almost eight years now, I have used blogging as the biggest medium to story tell. I am discovering how many different pages I have turned in these eight years. I have been broken, side-tracked, stretched, redeemed, wronged and wrong. Looking back, some of the conclusions that I came to in telling my story, would be very different today if I were to write it again. However, we all proclaim what we know, and we tell the story from the perspective we have in that moment. We are all in a process of change. Life is not static. We cannot live out our story, and come out on the other side the exact same character as we were when we entered the story. It's not possible.

There is power in a story, but sometimes it is intimidating and exhausting to tell it. Sometimes we feel as if we are competing with all of the stories around us, and they can be so loud and so very good. Sometimes ours seems weak and unworthy, and we wonder if our voice should even be inserted into the noise. Because sometimes our voice changes, and the story that we told so boldly and so surely before has changed. So why bother, if we are only going to continue to grow in our understanding and perspective of life? Somedays I want to call it quits, and find another medium, because this one collects the changes too easy and stacks them up and makes me squirm at the me of yesterday. Did I really believe that and write that? I don't even remember those words or feelings or opinions. And yet they are all weaved into my story, and without them my story wouldn't be authentic. 

His grace redeems every broken bit of this story, every changed idea and thought, and He uses this tiny offering to mesh with someone elses story. I have seen it over and over and over. So, on the days when I want to shut the laptop, perhaps I do, and recently I have, but maybe I don't, and maybe in the broken, messed up parts of this story - when I write too certainly and heavily - maybe just maybe His mercy shrouds it and buffers it. Because I have seen these words here, ones that now I may cringe at and may not ever remember feeling so passionate about, fill up an empty place inside of  someone else. I have seen God use my inadequacies, in telling this story, in ways that only He ever could.

Every time I step away from this space, take a deep breath, reevaluate if this matters, I am gently nudged back. Every single time He brings me back, and whispers write. Just write, with all of your heart, soul, and mind. Write from your heart and from your now. Because I want to be perfected in all of Your weaknesses. Splay yourself open and write out your soul, because it is there where redemption in the brokenness will be seen. It is there where I will be seen. It's your story, and it matters, because I am writing it. I am the one changing it - and changing you. 

So, I just write. My fingers fly, my heart races. It is exhilarating  It is what I am meant to do. I was created to share in words written down and bled out on a page or a screen. They are not the most beautiful or the best. Someone else does this better. Sometimes I am sure, and sometimes I am shaky. Sometimes the story changes, and sometimes pages need to be ripped out. And yet, I write, because this is mine to share. These words are a part of me and and a part of this moment.

This is my offering, my worship, my heart.

.Community.

As we seek out to build this new kind of church, there is one theme that continues to stand out in the front - community. We see it in the book of Acts in the first church (Acts 2:42-47) - goodness - they were DEVOTED to one another. Can you just imagine a community devoted to one another? A community that loved each other so much that they desired to share their lives with each other? That is exactly the first church that God established, and yet, I look at so many churches today and see how very far we have drifted from this mind set.  How we have let our culture dictate our posture towards each other. We see this beautiful relationship perfectly lived out, way back in Genesis at the beginning of this created world - God, Jesus, and the Spirit were all in community with one another. The theme is woven throughout history, time, the Bible, and our world - although sometimes it is hard to find here in our culture which values individualism so much. One thing that resonated with me the most about Ethiopia, was the community that was there - people doing life together. And the women - oh, how beautiful the women were - loving on each other with lavish kisses, and literally raising babies together. They truly had a village. And I came home with an ache, because for the first time I realized, I truly did not, but I was desperate for it - breathless for it.

[source]

We were not created to live life in isolation. And yet, so many of us carry these excruciating battle scars that keep us running from community. I am right there, too; I make the same excuses, carry the same scars, and have the same fears. As an introvert, it is easy for me to retreat, pull away from people, and become a hermit. It is comfortable, and it is second nature. And although, many times it truly feels like a security blanket to me, it is not the way that God intended me to live out this one life. Even as an introvert, I still need my people.

And the truth is, we all do.

But tragically, especially for women, community is complicated. If we are honest, we have all been on the receiving end of a hurtful community or friendship. The past wounds inflicted on our heart from other women, leave us questioning whether it is even worth it. The emotional  reactions that surface when we think of past experiences are bitter and real. Disappointment burns, betrayal bites, women and their words wound so deeply. And yet, we desire a community where we can be real and raw and broken and messy - a community where we can be transparent and vulnerable with no fear that we will be met with criticism and judgement. We want a community that takes on the posture of Jesus, where God shows up, and where the Spirit weaves. We deeply need community with other people - with other women. We want to know other women intimately and, we need to be known in the same way, and we need to be safe in the knowing. We need a place where we can know that it is okay to not be okay, and where we do not have to answer every "How are you?" with "Fine". Because none of us are fine, and it is okay to not be fine.

For a lot of years, I have learned to hide behind that "fine". I have hid for so long, that now at 33 years old, I am just uncovering the real me - the one that doesn't have to be hidden. The one who doesn't have to pretend to be perfect and put-together in order to be accepted. I have lived a lifetime of surface relationships, arm-length friendships, withdrawal, isolation, masking - faking. I thought I had to in order to be liked and accepted, and while it band aided the pain of rejection, it kept me from being healed and redeemed in community. It kept me from community. It kept me jaded and cynical and not able to maintain deep friendships, because although I am an introvert, I don't do shallow well, or small-talk. I like to go deep fast, get to the heart, but that is terrifying - for me and probably for other women.

I am desperate for community though, and friendship with women. I finally am beginning to see that this is what I am craving - a safe place to laugh and share stories, to cry with and for one another, to enter another person's pain and journey and life. My defenses and callousness and hurts and fears need to be melted away. I need a community where I can mess up and not be a good friend, and be grabbed by the neck and not let go. Because I won't be good at it - at least not right away. I want to be bare before my sisters - blemishes, scars, warts and all. I desire that genuine connection that God desires for us all. I yearn for community, and am excited about the women that God is putting into this new season of my life.

The best is yet to be.

.When Your Dream Can't Compare.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

 H. Jackson Brown Jr.

My generation is fierce and passionate and hands-on. We see a problem, and we rise up to fix it. We are not content to sit on the sidelines and watch or do something the same way over and over, with no results, simply because that is how it has always been done before. We want to see change in our world, and we want to be part of that change - starting in our homes, families, churches, communities, and ultimately spreading into the world. We have big, vast dreams and the heart to push those dreams into fruition. The men and women in my generation are brave and bold and beautiful. We are potential just waiting to be splayed open.

My generation wants to make a difference, and we want our dreams to matter.

But we are also easily discouraged, because sometimes we get so bogged down in the size of our dreams. Sometimes we start comparing the size of our dream to the size of her dream, and the dream we once thought was so big and captivating and worthy seems so minuscule and pathetic and not enough. And it feels like we we are just a tiny drop in a huge ocean, and we can never make a difference. So sometimes my generation loses that passion, that fire, that persistence, and we retreat into the dark canopy of apathy. And while we are comparing our dream to hers and feeling defeated, we forget that we are being pursued by Jesus. We forget that the pursuit of Jesus is so much bigger then anything we could ever chase after. We forget that when we seek Him, our dreams, are His dreams. Even if it seems to pale in comparison to her dream, it is the perfect one that He has for you for right now. You are the only one that can accomplish that God-sized dream, it was created for you. Jesus is in you, and he wants to bring that dream to life through you in a unique way that He will not do with anyone else - because it is His dream for you.

So when we surf the internet and read about the huge things that they are doing for the Kingdom, when we watch our sisters publish books and lead women's conferences, and that family move to Haiti to share Jesus, or that Pastor shepherd the mega church, or we see the huge ministry that she started, and our hearts twist, just take a deep breath and stop comparing. It's not about the size of the dream, it is about the size of our God, who will manifest Himself in your dream. Be courageous, be brave, link arms, knowing that God uses it all for His Kingdom - the great, big dreams and the smaller ones. Embrace that unique, just for you, dream that has been planted in your heart. Don't question the size, don't compare it to theirs. Dig deep, there is a dream inside of you, you do not have to travel to find it, it is already there. Just be still and listen for it, for the dream that belongs to you and only you. Nobody else can do what Jesus is calling you to do. Because He has a role custom designed with you in mind, nobody else fits it like you do. Focus on your dream - the one that He is right now whispering into your heart. Don't focus on her dream or changing the whole world, that will lead to discouragement and an overwhelmed soul. He has not equipped you for their dream, He has perfectly equipped you for yours.

Your dream is what will make a difference. It matters. And it looks different than her dream and his dream and their dream. It looks like your dream, and together, following our individual dreams, we will make a difference. Break up with self-doubt, throw off comparison, squelch the jealousy, set down regret there are issues just waiting to be resolved, the Kingdom has a hole that only your dream can perfectly fit into. Settle in right where you are. You have everything you need to accomplish it, because in your weakness He is there - perfect and ready to use you.

.For Her.

He is hers, and he is mine. He is ours. Her incredible loss was my incredible gift. And while I cannot imagine my world without him, poverty robbed her of life with him. There is not a single day that goes by that I do not realize this. It is a gut check every single morning. It makes for very complicated feelings in my heart. What if the roles were reversed? What if it was I who was there, struggling with starvation and preventable diseases, struggling with poverty and injustice squelching out my dreams? What if she was the one gifted with raising my children?

She is my link to his past, and we are eternally entwined. She is the only one who knows the way those first bumps, kicks, and wriggles felt inside of her swollen belly. And I am the one who knows the tears he cries for her, and how her pain is reflected in his heart. She knows the anguish of laboring him to life; while I know the anguish of laboring him here. She has all of his yesterdays, the ones I will never, ever know. I have all of his tomorrows, the ones she will never, ever know. She knows the dreams and prayers she breathed over his newborn face. She knows his first cry and first gasp for breath, and I wonder even in those first moments, if she knew that their time together was fleeting - flowing through her fingertips like fine grains of sand. I wonder if she breathed in his curls a little longer. I wonder if her tears came hot and fast as she wondered where the food would come from, and how she could feed herself in order to feed her son. I wonder if she was scared. I know her heart was breaking. I wonder if she held him tight to her chest and pleaded for his life.

With Jamesy's first steps my heart soared and then peaked at the knowing that she was missing it. I squealed for both of us.

When Habi scored that first soccer goal for his school team, my eyes burned with tears. She wasn't here to shake that cowbell and make a wild scene for our boy. So I did for both of us.

When the doctor told us Jamesy could see, rivers of scorching tears trickled the curves of my cheeks, and I begged God to let her know that our boy with the shaky gorgeous eyes could SEE.

When Habi's blood tests all came out clear and negative, I wanted to dance with joy for her, knowing that she knew more than anyone in the world what a miracle that was.

With every new word that Jamesy gains, and every time his deep brown eyes find mine and he says Mama, my heart skips a beat, and I cherish it for both of us.

With every I love you, Mommy, I reassure Habi of my love and her love. Two women fiercely in love with the same boy.

Every time I tuck them in at night, stroke their curls, kiss their lids, I linger longer for her. Every milestone, accomplishment, late night talk, hug, kiss, kitchen dance, giggle is all soaked up for both of us. She is a part of them and a part of me. Two different Ethiopian women and then American me. Two brave, courageous women that poverty has stolen what was most precious to them. And while adoption is the most beautiful experience I have ever been inside of, it is also the most horrific and ugly as it is mottled with so much pain, so much loss, so much injustice. This is not how it should be. Poverty should not rob a child of its mother and a mother of its child, and while by the time I entered the picture for my boys it was too late, and the only thing left to do was what we did, for many children and mothers living in poverty, it is not too late. It is not too late to give these mommies the chance to experience first steps, first giggles, first day of school, bedtime kisses and prayers. It is not too late to allow a child to grow up in his or her beautiful culture and be adored by birth family and surrounded with love. As a mother to two birth children and two children born only in my heart, this is something I am passionate about. While adoption is viable and necessary in cases like my sons', the best and most ideal situation is to keep children with their birth families when possible- despite poverty. Poverty is not a reason to separate families.

This Mother's Day, rather than giving that special mother in your life flowers or jewelry, why not give them the gift of supporting mothers and children surrounded by poverty, so that they can stay and flourish together? It is as simple as making a one time donation to Compassion in honor of the special mom in your life, or partner with Compassion's Child Survival Program in ongoing support. Jesus can offer these moms hope that life can be different. I want to be part of this difference.

My heart is for these mothers - these brave, beautiful, courageous mothers, who daily battle things that I could never dream of battling, all while I sit in my safe, comfortable home sipping coffee. Today I want you to think about these mothers - sisters across the world. What if it was you? Let's link arms and fight for these women to have a chance to love their babies to adulthood. Let's not close our eyes, turn our heads, and be silent.

Today I write this for her and for her. To Habi's first mommy and to Jamesy's first mommy  - Happy Mother's Day - you are forever in my heart. Every time I look into his eyes, I see you there. I love him for the both of us, and he will know of your love in my touch, in my words, and in my heart for him. This is for you and for you.