10 Things That I Know To Be True

1) Even though it defies logic, I'd rather be hot than cold.

2) "Time moves faster the older you get" was not some crazy idea made up by an old dude with a time machine. It's true.

3) I hate confinement.

4) I'm an extrovert, and that's okay.

5) Every now and then, I need an introvert day.

6) Timing is rarely what we think it should be.

7) Grace is freeing.

8) In two weeks, I will be in the Middle East. For an entire semester. This is insanely exciting, slightly intimidating, and sort of unbelievable.

9) What I understand about God, compared to all He is, is about the same as zero compared to infinity. And that's ok. Trying to make my zero a bit bigger is what a faith journey is about.

10) I'm pretty darn excited about life

photo credit: Bethany Hench

Stop Answering. Start Asking.

You heard me. Answers are the pits. They are dead ends. They teach you nothing.

Yes but...they're so nice. They come packaged in little boxes, complete with orderly labels. I can file them away on the shelves of my mind so easily. After that, I don't have to deal with them!

Questions, on the other hand, are so....blobby. Misshapen. And they change! Kind of like flubber, come to think of it. They don't stay in boxes. And when they ooze between the cracks or bust out the lid, they get all over the answers neatly stacked around them and screw those up too! Questions are messy.

Questions are also uncomfortable. They get stuck in places, and you run into them when you're trying to get to an answer. I know the answer is there, if I can just get past this stupid question... I need to ask the right person, read the right book, hear the right sermon - then it will go away. We hide our questions, convinced that we are the only ones with this gooey chaos, ashamed that our boxes aren't in order, worried that it will make us less credible, less mature, less real.

But that's the thing: the questions are way more real than any of the answers we have already boxed up. They are here. Now. They point to things we need to work on, or remind us of things we should pay more attention to. They do us much more good than answers do.

So you have to learn to live with the questions. And I don't mean just tolerate them until the answer shows up. I mean stop waiting around for the answer. Love the question. Explore it. Carry it with you. Walk around it, study it from different angles. Give it room to mold and flow. Maybe even give it room to mold you.

Open up the question and look inside, understand where it came from. Let it change as you walk through life. Let your approach to it change. Come up with half-answers, then ditch them and build something new when the old doesn't fit anymore. Let the question grow with you. Let it make you grow.

Perhaps most importantly, don't hide the question. Bring it into the light. Talk about it. Show it to people. Maybe they will see new angles that you couldn't. Maybe they have the same question, or one like it, and you can show them new angles.

Maybe they will have never before seen anything like your question. Maybe they will have no idea what to say. But they can still help you carry that wibbly-wobbly, uncomfortable mess. I don't know. That's a good question. Lets keep working on it. 

"Well yeah, that's all good and fine for you to say. Sounds like a walk in the park when you put it like that. But these questions are hard! They hurt. They don't feel like flubber at all. Most of the time it's more like running into a brick wall. How can you tell me to love that?!"

I know. Believe me, I know. I've felt that brick wall. But I've also felt that box. That made-up, held together by tape and desperation, suffocating box of an answer. I thought it was enough. I thought it was better. But then I let it fall apart, and I was able to see the beauty of the question. And I could finally breathe again.

Yeah, answers are alright for some things. But it's the questions that make you who you are. It's the questions that make you grow. It's the questions that determine your journey.

It's the questions that I have come to love.

O Elegant Mystery

o elegant mystery,
creator of time,
revealer of history,
tune of the chime,
echo and swirl and curl through
my mind.
here I am waiting to be found
and to find.
seeker and shepherd,
blossom of laws,
lion of conquest sharpen your claws,
here I am waiting,
a child of your light;
no more debating
with my soul in the night.
circle and stir and renew my soul
o elegant mystery
splinter me whole.

~ Steven James

Climb On

I am convinced that in our journey as humans, we do not travel on paved roads. The thing with asphalt is that when you go over a hill, once you are done going down, all thats left is to go up. On your way up a paved road, you don't slide back or have to go back down a bit to find a better way up - you just go...up.

This is not the story of the human journey. There is no even up and down. No paved roads.

Yes, there are mountains and valleys in every life - yes, every one. Some are deeper or higher than others. Some take longer to travel. But they are not smooth in either direction.

So what do you call the spaces where you're not stuck in a valley, and not perched on a mountain, but teetering in between, at one moment floundering and the next soaring? Whats the name for the place where you take one step up, and the sand gives way, letting you slide two steps back? How do you describe the moment when you look up from the ground and find a boulder in front of you, and spend the next while making your way sideways to get around it? Or how about the time when you go straight up, no slant, surging to a new height?

No, life isn't a paved road. It's a climb. And I'm learning that one slip does not mean failure. Neither does one peak equal success. There will be both in any journey worth taking. Sometimes they may seem to happen simultaneously. Sometimes the valleys will outweigh the mountains. But sometimes the mountains turn plateaus of joy.

It's not about reaching the top. It's about continuing, no matter what lies ahead, and finding those who will walk with you on this journey.

Act II: Growing

There is an orange piece of construction paper hanging on the door of my dorm room closet. I stare at it when homework turns me into a dead-eyed zombie. I answer questions about it when people visit my room. I quote it to myself - and have it quoted to me. I carry it in my mental backpack as I take the first few steps on the trek through sophomore year of college. In a rainbow array of marker, it reads:

This Year...
1) Drink more water
2) Get better posture
3) Embrace conversation
4) Refuse to be "fine"
5) Read more books

The first two are about being mindful of my body: the temple that God has given me, a gift to care for. The third is about building and expanding relationships. Yeah yeah, I know I already talk a lot, but this is about being intentional, and not avoiding deep, complicated conversations. The fourth is about caring for my emotions. They are there for a reason, and I will honor that by being honest about how I feel. The fifth is about feeding my brain - not just the textbook side, but also the fairytale side.

Growing. That's the word that comes to mind when I think of this year. It feels both comfortably familiar and excitingly new. I find myself looking twice in corners and peering under edges, searching for....something. I'm not sure what it is, but I have a feeling I'll know when I find it.

This semester, I'm gathering up the last of my gen-eds in preparation for entering the nursing program next fall. It seems simple enough, pretty routine, but between field hockey, outdoor adventures, and a group of new friends and mentors, I have no doubt that I will indeed grow.

Next semester, I will be in the Middle East on cross-cultural. It goes without saying that growth will happen there. New countries, new people, new food, new ideas, new problems, new views. I'm so ready to travel :)

I'm growing this year. I'm doing me. Because I deserve to know myself, and I want to know my place in the world.

Stumbling

The topic of modesty tends to make my hackles go up. It has been shoved in my face for years. It comes along with rules and measuring tapes and disapproving looks. It has been the cause for shame, guilt, and fear of my own body.

I would bet that many young women have experienced the same feelings. We are trained from a young age that our bodies will cause men to sin if we do not cover ourselves. We are told that we are stumbling blocks, and we must hide away to protect our brothers.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am all for respecting yourself and wearing appropriate clothing. I’m not advocating for skimpy dress. What I am advocating for is accountability.

When we label young women as “stumbling blocks”, we are putting the weight of the sin on their shoulders. We insinuate that their hemline, neckline, or walk is solely responsible for any male’s response to it.

Not only is this degrading to women, by putting false responsibility on our shoulders, but it is demeaning to men. It assumes that men are incapable of controlling their thoughts, that they are victims of their own nature, that they are helpless, at the mercy of women’s wardrobes.

I don’t know about you, but the men in my life deserve much more credit than that. So why do we continue to heap shame on women and remove responsibility from men? Yes, it is a continuing problem. Just this summer, the camp I work at recommended that the female staff wear shorts over our swimsuits because we don’t want to be a “distraction” to the male staff. Curiously enough, I heard no mention of asking the male staff to wear shirts at the pool so as not to distract us girls. Either my legs are insanely more distracting than I thought, or there is some unequal distribution of blame going on.

Why is it that women are expected to control their own thoughts while we are also being told to cover up to protect the thoughts of men?

I am not a stumbling block. Your thoughts are not my responsibility. I will respect my body, and I expect the same from you. Every woman deserves this treatment – regardless of what she is wearing.

Snippets, Fragments & Snapshots

Once again, I find myself nearing the end of another wonderful summer at Camp Hebron. And once again, I have no idea how to convey all the life that has been packed into just a few weeks. So here are some snippets, fragments and snapshots from summer 2014:

"Mousetraps. He wants us to play with mousetraps. This man is insane." Such was my inner monologue as we passed said trap around the seated circle. But somewhere between throwing and catching the finger-snapping contraption of wood and wire and figuring out how five of us could set one without using our hands, I began to smile. "This is genius!" Not using a shoe, pencil and multitool to maneuver the catch, but using random objects and objectives to make people think, to get them outside of their protective bubble, to help them grow together. They call it experiential education, and it's what I'll be doing this summer: teaching through experience. Camping out, climbing, canoeing, playing marbles, squirting each other with shaving cream - I will use all of this and much more to reach out to young souls and whisper to them again and again. "You are precious. You are powerful. You are loved."

. . .

The last strains of the guitar fade, and I take my seat on the carpeted floor. It's time for vespers, and I look to the stage as the pastor comes forward. One of my campers begins to scoot towards me, easing into my lap. A soft smile tugs at my lips as she leans back in to me. Touch. That's what she's thirsty for. This is proven throughout the week as she holds my hand while we walk or leans into me as we wait in line. We are so often focused on obvious needs - food, shelter, education - that we sometimes forget the most simple ones. Each one of us needs touch, to reach out and know that we are not alone on this journey called life.

. . .

A sigh slips out of my mouth as her shoe slips off the rock once again, for what seems like the hundredth time. "Do you want to hang for a bit and rest?" I ask, stepping forward so as not to be yanked by the belay rope tied to my harness. She surveys the rock face that she has been trying to climb for the past forty five minutes. Each time that she rests at the bottom, she eyes the rock with a fierce determination. "Hey, what size shoes do you wear?", I call out to another counselor who is at the bottom with me. A few minutes later, the camper has shed her cursedly smooth basketball shoes for a pair of slightly large sneakers, and is once again facing the climb. A single slip of her foot, and she is up! And up she continues, steadily, all the way to the top where my sister greets her with a high five. Sometimes all we need is the right equipment. 

. . .

Giggles turn to snorts as we try to stifle our laughter so as not to wake my sleeping campers. Two fellow staff have joined me on my cabin porch to debrief the day and enjoy some snacks. Our topics stray from camp life to college to relationships to chocolate preferences as the night goes on. I finally crawl into bed around 1am, still smiling. I have to be awake in five hours, but I am convinced that sleep is not the only refreshment that the body needs, and that good conversation fills the soul like nothing else.

. . .

"Crap. It's Friday." The thought creeps into my mind as I get dressed. My campers stumble around me, sleepy eyes still half closed. It's been a crazy week, as Ultimate Adventure always is. They've hiked, caved, canoed and climbed....but have they been loved? Did they share all their stories? Was it a space for them to be safe, to be themselves? These doubts linger in my mind as I move through the day, and become especially intense as we head down the hill to the closing program. We sit through songs, a few impromptu chants, and some rehearsed lines of thanks to parents and instructions for luggage pick-up before I hug my girls and send them off. I'm chatting with a fellow counselor when I hear one of my girls behind me. I turn, assuming she wants a picture or lost her bag or something, but instead I see tears on her cheeks. "I don't want to go home", she says, at once smiling and crying. Impacting kids isn't about what I feel, it's about opening myself, pouring out, and trusting God to do the rest. 

. . .

As the end of the thunderclap rolls through the air, a whistle blow clears everyone out of the pool. We lifeguards settle smugly into our armchairs, free to soak in the last bit of sunlight before the storm hits. And hit it does, with a swift vengeance that sends us scrambling to grab the hammocks before crowding into the tiny guard shack. We swat flies and peer out the tiny windows, gasping at each crack above our heads, even watching zig zags of lightning touch the ground nearby. As the rumblings move farther and farther away, we are drawn out into the puddles and streams made by the downpour. We meet up with fellow staff and, amidst whoops and laughter, set about thoroughly enjoying the beautiful rain in jumps, slides, tackles and splashes. Joy. Pure joy. That's what these puddles are made of. We may as well have been given pools of gold. 

Embracing the Fall

Sometimes chaos reigns.

Sometimes everything you had planned gets blown away in the winds of a hurricane you did not see coming.

Sometimes you reach for something familiar and realize that its been replaced by something new.

The feeling that you are tossed by the waves of life with no control over where you are going is quite unsettling. Those ideas you had, that plan, that security net disappears and you're left wondering where  God is in this mess. Why does it sometimes feel like I've been pushed off a cliff without a parachute?

Some things are explainable, but many are not.

So I am learning to embrace the fall. I will look for branches to catch me. I will wave my arms like a lunatic to see if I grow wings. But if neither shows up, that is ok too.

I will spread my arms, breath in the rushing wind, and thank the Lord for whatever shows up at the bottom.

After The Rain

After the rain there is a quiet, bright,
tangible newness about the world.
The lingering droplets that still fall from the sky
are a telltale sign of what has passed,
but the invigorated grass is proof
of what has already been made new.

My sneakers meet the pavement,
sending tiny sprays of water up my legs.
I breath in the cool, damp air,
my eyes scanning the now muddy fields.
Hiding under the eves of the porch,
I was not washed by the sky's tears,
but now I can be part of the bathed earth.

If only there were a heavenly rain
that could touch the soul;
clean old wounds of hurt,
wash off the dust of fear.
Then maybe, just maybe, we could walk
and not droop our shoulders
under the weight of what this life holds.

For now, I can only touch the wet ground,
see the reaching leaves, breathe the moist air.
And as I run, chasing after the clouds
that refreshed the earth, I imagine that
after the rain, there is a quiet, bright,
tangible newness about me.

An Invitation to Believe Better Things

I love people.

Everyone you love will, at some point, disappoint you.

That is one of the hardest truths for me to swallow.

I love people. Some may think "well yeah, you're an extrovert", but that's not what I'm talking about. I love people. My family and friends and mentors and kids I babysit. I tell people that I love them. Not just my parents and my boyfriend, but others that I am close to as well. Some find this weird. Some aren't sure how to handle it. But I tell them anyway, because some people don't hear it enough, and others hear it too much in meaningless ways.

I love people. And that gets me in trouble. Sometimes I try too hard to make them happy. I wear myself down, suffocating in my own worries and pain and questions that I leave unsaid in favor of listening to others. Sometimes I become so enthralled with the beauty of another's soul that I become blind to the inevitable flaws it has. I defend and justify furiously when I should really accept them as humans, who are as imperfect as I am, and allow them space to heal.

I love people. And they disappoint me, just as should be expected - not in a cynical, jaded way, but in an "you are human, and I recognize that" way. Sometimes my love clouds my vision, and I forget that they are more than the perfectly formed robot I have subconsciously imagined they are. Sometimes I am the sole reason for my disappointment.

I love people. And I won't apologize for it. It looks crazy. It hurts every now and then. But I will keep loving. Because you are a beautiful child of God, and you are worth it all, regardless of the pain that may come from it.

You are worth all the love I can give and much, much more.

The Things We Miss

Food. Unlimited access to a cafeteria open twelve hours a day, $100 at a snack counter, and piles of sweets from care packages - but I still wish I could open up a fridge and heat up leftovers. I miss home cooked food, challenging food, umami food, real food.

Math. I prepared for college math, and let out a whoop of excitement when I found out my requirement was filled without taking any classes. After two semesters of high school calculus and a grueling AP test, you'd think I'd have had my fill. Nope. I miss math. I'm resigned to living vicariously through my math major friend.

Church. You can tell my situation is unusual as soon as you find out that I did not attend church with my parents after 10th grade. The search for my own community lead me to my own congregation, one that I attended joyfully and that helped me to grow. Leaving it was hard. Searching for a replacement at my new home was harder. Realizing that I'm never going to find one like it is really hard.

Trust. This is the most difficult in recent months. Don't get me wrong, I've made some wonderful friendships here at college, ones that I am confident will last for quite some time. Still, the fast connection that comes from unlimited time together and new experiences in common cannot replace the solidity of years spent walking together. The trust will come, that I am confident in. It just takes time, and that leaves me at least two hours away from trust, for now.

I am thankful that I miss these things. I am glad that I will always remember why knowing how to cook well is important. I am grateful for a well-rounded education that made me love more disciplines than I can study. I am happy for the time I had to be nurtured in a loving church family. I am overjoyed for the trusts I have, and those that are being built.

I am thankful that I have been given the gift of distance, so that I can look back and realize value of what I love.

Shattered

I am broken.

You are broken.

We are all broken.

But who will admit it first?

We build elaborate facades to cover and explain the cracks. We stuff, we bury, don't tell, we do anything to keep the intricate secret that we don't have it all together. No, I'm not depressed, I don't need help, I don't have anxiety, I don't deal with a rough past, I'm not confused or disappointed or afraid, I don't cry, I don't feel. 

Somewhere in the wall of nice outfits, fake smiles, and good grades we lose our humanity. Because let's be real, despite each of our panicked attempts to hide it, we are all broken. We all have demons lurking in the shadows. Life is hard. There are so many jagged edges, dark woods, and patches of quicksand that none of us makes it through unscathed. We all know that.

But we still are scared out of our minds that someone will find out....what? That we are just like everyone else?

And it doesn't just hurt us, it makes it that much harder for anyone else to own up to their struggles. Oh no! I'm the only one who hasn't gotten it right, what is wrong with me?! Facing demons is hard. Facing them alone is nearly impossible.

So this is what I ask: When someone tells you about their demons, don't put on a mask of sympathy. Don't swallow your own scars. Don't try to fix it all. Instead, just...

...break.

Because being broken alone only leads to pain - but being broken together leads to healing.

Don't Think.

The shrill beeps of my alarm send me scrabbling for my watch. I roll back onto my pillow, and thoughts are already racing into my mind, jockeying for position in my conscience: some random song from yesterday, the paper I have to print out before class, the fact that I should go running but probably won't, what day of the week is it anyway? I haven't even gotten out of bed, but my mind is in full gear - and that's just the start.

In chapel, in class, in seminars, during homework, in deep conversations in the wee hours of the morning - I think all the time. We all do. We are trained to be 100% on, 100% of the time because we don't want to miss anything, screw up anything, forget anything. 

When my head once again hits the pillow at the end of the day, I begin to relax. My breathing slows, my tired muscles soften....but my brain keeps going. I'm so used to being on that I can't turn it off. 

This is exhausting. 

So I snowboard. Ok, so that's a relatively new thing, but it's my current release from my mind. Hockey is the usual outlet, and running if I'm out of season, but this semester I had the good fortune to have snowboarding class fall into my lap. Yes, class. I get credit for hitting the slopes every Wednesday for six weeks. College is great :)

Not only am I having fun at these classes and learning a snow sport that always seemed so cool, I am resting. When I'm boarding, I don't think about homework, or applications for things, or whether I should go to bible study or FCA meetings. Instead, I feel the texture of the snow I'm carving, I pull my scarf over my chin against the rush of cold air, I focus on the bend of my knees and the distribution of my weight. Even on the lift, I pray and joke and gaze peacefully at the frosted trees. 

I get out of my head, and into my body. And it is wonderfully freeing. 

Yes, thinking is a wonderful thing, a thing to be done well, and often. But it is also a thing to take a break from. And I've found my rest in the rush of the slopes.