Alive to Make Him Known

When I first began writing for this blog, I intended it to be a way to stay connected to my family and friends during my 10-month stay in Uganda, East Africa. I wrote 24 blog posts during my time in Uganda, and I am proud of (mostly) all of them. I wrote about everything from daily routines to rare and exciting experiences. I wrote about my victories and my hurts, my excitement and my fear. I pretty much wrote about everything I thought, did, and felt. With each post, my heart grew more and more attached to the act of writing. I got better at articulating my feelings, and my ability to be vulnerable through the written word surprised even me.

This blog became a lot more than I thought it would ever be. People told me how much they loved it, and I gained a surprisingly large following. But it wasn’t really about that.

I won’t lie to you: your affirmations felt good. I enjoyed hearing that people liked reading my words and that they somehow resonated with my outpourings. I liked it when people would tell me they waited for my posts in anticipation. I liked that I had a way to show people what I am good at.

It did my heart good to write. It meant so much more to me than just a way to inform you of my exciting, painful, and wonderful life. It was a way to release emotional energy and make sense of my heart. It became a source of joy, comfort, and peace. It started out about you. But it turned out to be a lot more about me.

I communicate differently when I write. I am honest- more honest than I know how to be in any other way. The written word is so sacred to me, I simply cannot do it the injustice of false expression nor a half hearted truth. My heart is alive and my muddy mind becomes clear. I am the most me when I write.

I expressed my intentions for this blog in my very first post:

January 2014

The primary purpose of this blog is to record my adventures during my 10 month stay in Mbale, Uganda so that my friends and family back home will be able to keep up with what's going on. I have these fantasies that all of my friends and even strangers will be anxiously waiting each week to read my beautiful words. But, in all honestly, even if my mom is the only person who ever reads this, that's enough for me.

What a baby I was! What a child! I had no idea what this blog would become for me; an outlet for expression, a greenhouse for blooming creativity, a sanctuary for worship.

I wrote as a way to stay connected with those back home, but writing became something that I absolutely had to do. I didn’t write because I had to for a grade or to meet a requirement. I had to because it became an integral part of me. I needed it. And God used it to shape me.

I wrote about all kinds of things: meeting camels, hiking mountains, eating grasshoppers, fishing, picking wild flowers, teaching Bible, playing games, exploring villages, learning guitar, reading good books, praying for people, worshiping, visiting the sick, painting, speaking to people of other religions, singing, drinking coffee, eating matoke, playing dress up, grieving over hurts, rejoicing in triumphs, laughing, talking to God, hearing from God, and walking, walking, walking.

I believed that my life was something worth writing about.

But then I left. And my life became different.

I started believing a lie when I left Uganda. I believed that my now “normal” life was something that was no longer worth writing about. I wasn’t special or exciting anymore. My life was too much like everyone else’s to interest a reader.

You didn’t want to read about it. But more than that, I didn’t want to write about it.

To the world’s standards, my life isn’t really that special. Maybe if I still lived in Africa, I would be cool. Maybe if I’d gone to school out of state, or gone to school in Austin, even, my life would be something others consider interesting. Maybe if I’d rejected social norms and not gone to college, or if I had blue hair, or if I was majoring in ceramics- maybe then my life would be something worth reading about.

I have been under the impression that my life was once big and is now small.

But the King has begun to speak truth over my mind and what he is saying is this: the value of my life has never been determined by what I do.

The value of my life hinges on where I come from, or perhaps, more accurately, who I come from. He, the creator, is responsible for every ounce of creativity I have stirring inside of me. He knows my steps before I take them and is able to create beauty in every situation. He is the same in every place and at every time. My only job is to steward well the life he has given me.

A fire has been lit in my belly; a deep, burning desire to live. I want to squeeze the most life out of every day. I want to seize every opportunity to experience new things, to love new people, and to learn anything and everything I can. I want to make choices to live a life that I am proud of. I so desire to live well. And more than that, to live as me.

I am slowly realizing that it wasn’t really about the particulars of where I was or what I was doing. It was about me. I was becoming alive. Uganda grew me as a person, and this is the person I have grown into. I will forever be thankful for that place, the things I learned there, and what God did in me. But it really isn’t about the place, specifically, that did such a work in me. It was Jesus. That work did not become undone because I now call a different continent home. He is the same.

Maybe I would not have allowed him to change me so much in another setting. Maybe he had to take me all the way across the world to meet the person that he created me to be. But I did not leave that person in Africa. She is right here, living a life that is both typical and extraordinary.

My life here is precious and wild and exciting.

I have an incredible job where I get to meet really interesting people, watch children grow, and spend a lot of time around books. I go to a university where I get to learn so much about the world, and meet a lot of people who are very different than me. I have a loud and fun family, who both challenge me and encourage me. I live in a precious, little house with two hilarious and wonderful roommates. I have great friends, and a beautiful church family.

My life is worth so much. As it turns out; I still have something to say.

I am still the same person I was when I lived overseas. I still struggle. I still create. I still experience brand new things and go on wonderful adventures. I meet incredible people and experience tiny, daily miracles. My heart still aches and my soul still sings. I want things that I don’t have. I get tired and sometimes mad. I laugh. I laugh so much. I get excited and overwhelmed and content. I have good days and bad days and days that are both. I have moments of great wisdom and moments of such immaturity that I almost want to slap myself. I mess up. I let people down. I cry. I cry so much. I feel things, to a degree that some may find troubling. I simply cannot feel small. I am a tangled ball of emotions and contradicting personality traits. I am messy and silly and reserved and plain and lovely and smart and simple and interesting and selfish and wild and scared and hopeful.

I still have something worth writing about. Life is still good. And I am still me.

And more than anything, I am still wildly and passionately in love with the God who sees me.

September 2014

Honestly, y’all, this month has been really hard. I miss my family and my friends. I miss what I know. I've been thrown out of any sense of routine and familiarity that I've come to know, and I feel insecure and uncomfortable. I don’t always want to be here. Sometimes I just want to pack my bags and head straight home to my mom and my bed and my shelf of books. I want to be where things are familiar, where I’m loved, where I’m known.

But here’s the thing: more than anything in this world, I want Jesus. More than comfort, more than stability, more even than the people I love. I want Him. I want to live with Him, walk with Him, and work with Him. I desire to know Him, more and more deeply. I want my love for Him to grow fiercer, and my understanding of Him to grow deeper. He is what I want. More than anything, more than anyone. Jesus.

So I think I’m going to start writing again. Get ready, mom. I’ve got a lot to say.

My God is many things. He is good. He is trustworthy. He is mighty. He is Love. And He is faithful. I have learned much about His faithfulness over the past year.

I recently returned from a very special trip to East Africa. This trip was going to be a little bit different from other trips. This trip was all about goodbye.

Kate and I arrived in Uganda in May. We had one week as just the two of us, then we were joined by the rest of our team for the remaining two weeks.

Our first week was a painful one. We were gifted sweet reunions with those we love, and it was a precious time. But every greeting was paired with a question. "Why didn't you say goodbye? You just disappeared." It was true. Eight months earlier, we packed in the middle of the night and drove away the next morning, with no goodbye or explanation to leave with our sweet ones. We explained that leaving was an act of obedience to the authority that God has placed in our lives. The people back in America who made the decision to bring us home, did so out of love, protection, and God's direction. I was not angry with them. But I was grieved that I had to hurt so, and that I had left hurting people behind in Uganda. My departure hurt them. That was a fact that I had taken eight months to acknowledge.

I was overwhelmed with emotion. Grief, joy, fear, frustration, and nostalgia were all mixed together in an emotional cocktail that was less than pleasant to gulp down. Being back in Uganda was strange. I felt like I didn't fit anymore. I didn't have the same position among the children that I previously held. They had all grown and changed since I left. I had missed so much.

I clung tightly to Jesus in this time, as I had learned to do when I came back to America. Interestingly enough, I didn't find it my first instinct to turn to Jesus. My initial response to pain is to turn to other people, or distract myself with entertainment, or just completely ignore it. Choosing to turn to the Father with all of my hurt was just that, a choice; a choice that would seem easy to make, but doesn't always turn out to be. I chose to turn over all of my fear. I chose to trust.

In the first few days, we visited the school and Namatala. We had seen most of the children. It was exciting and full of smiles. But I still hadn't seen Esther.

All of the IChooseYou children are special, but Esther is the one who holds my heart the tightest. She is the one I think of often and dream of regularly. And it was her reaction that I feared. I feared that she may be angry at me for leaving without a word. I feared that she may be indifferent to me. But mostly, I feared that she may have forgotten about me. When Kate and I ventured out to Namabasa, the village where Esther and her family live, I stood outside the house. I didn't want to go in. I heard the giggles of Esther, her mother, and her siblings. Here were the people that meant the most to me, and I couldn't go in. In the thirty seconds that I stood outside of that house, a lot of things started to make sense.

Leaving hurt. It hurt me and it hurt them. It is foolish to ignore that hurt.

But the Lord was restoring our hearts with a sweet reunion. He was replacing pain with joy. Yes, there was pain, and a lot of it. We can't go about life pretending that it isn't there. God doesn't pretend it isn't there. He sees it and acknowledges it. But he also acknowledges the joy. You cannot acknowledge one without acknowledging the other. They are both very real. Pain is a part of the world we live in. It is real, and can't be pretended away. But joy, a characteristic of the Holy Spirit, is stronger than anything of this world. And in that moment, in front of Esther's house in the village of Namabasa, joy returned.

"Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning."
Psalm 30:5

The next week, Kate and I were joined by the rest of the team: Becky (founder of IChooseYou and extravagant lover of people), Paulina (a precious friend and close friend of the Holy Spirit), Bailey (the best little sister in the world and selfless servant), Cody (a new friend and bringer of joy), and Jim (Kate's dad, a teddy bear, and dad to everyone). Every person on the team brought new joy and life to the mission. Each had a special job in serving the children of IChooseYou, and each one blessed the children and mamas with extravagant love. No one held back. Not a single one of them would claim that they are capable of that kind of love without the father. I was encouraged to see each of my teammates abide completely in the father for their strength to love. Humility and grace were in abundance with this team.

The next two weeks were full of more joy. We spent special time with the children as a group and as individuals. We danced and sang and played games. We laughed and talked and shared hearts and food. We talked about Jesus and the Church and the Kingdom. We played games and kicked the soccer ball around. I learned new things about the culture and ate so much rice that I thought I might explode. I fell more in love with them than ever, and the best part of all: I was no longer afraid to love them.

This trip was exactly what it needed to be. It was fun and full of joy. Old friends were enjoyed and new ones made. I got to do things I've never done before, as well as do things I'd done a million times, but knowing this time that it would be the last time I would do it. He gave me the opportunity to finish well. I taught my last Bible class, knowing that it was the last time. I sat with Sarah in the office, knowing that it was the last time. I got to say goodbye. I said goodbye to every child and every mama. They saw me cry and they cried with me. It was exactly what it needed to be.

I am thankful for goodbyes. People always talk about how they hate goodbyes and would love to avoid them if they could. I've been guilty of thinking this a time or two. But you don't realize how badly you need goodbyes until your goodbye is taken away from you. It sounds like such a nice idea, to avoid the pain of letting go of a place or a person or a group of people. But that pain is so necessary. Goodbyes are necessary to grieve and move on. Because when you refuse to feel it, the pain just sticks around, like a needy dog, refusing to go away until you give it the attention it deserves. Only when the grief is acknowledged in the night can the joy come in the morning. I am thankful that I had the opportunity to say goodbye to these precious people. I am thankful for grief. It's a gift, really. Who knew?

In September, I came back to America after spending eight months in Uganda; falling deeply in love with the country, the people, and their Creator. It was sweet time that was cut short, for reasons I'm still not completely sure of. I am so thankful that God placed people in my life who care for me and my safety and were able to make the hard call to bring me back before the allotted time. But it was a painful return. I was overwhelmed with grief and navigating the confusing bits of being in an entirely different culture. I was easily distracted, had a hard time focusing, and spent most of my time with my head in the clouds. I had a hard time relating to people, avoided friends, and would quite literally cringe at the always lurking question from people: How was Africa? I pulled away from most people and didn't talk much about the last eight months of my life. None of my return was how I had pictured it. When I imagined coming back to America, I saw myself speaking of God's love everywhere I went. Here is what God did for me in Africa! See how I'm so alive and so full of joy?! But it wasn't like that at all. I was withdrawn and empty. My heart was hard and not easily moved for others. I wasn't myself. I had to ask for help. I hate asking for help. More than anything, I felt like I wasn't sure where God was. Surely, he couldn't be here in my darkness. He couldn't be present in this doubt, could he? The words I most frequently uttered to him were these: Where have you been?

Returning to America was scary and confusing. I was angry at God for making me come back early. It felt like I had trusted him to take care of me, and he let me down. I had placed my heart in his hands, and he dropped it. He didn't care for my heart in the way I thought it should be cared for, and now he couldn't be trusted. But, oh, how very wrong I was.

A person in the Bible who I am particularly drawn to is Mary of Bethany. She is not the same Mary who mothered King Jesus, nor the Mary who was healed by Jesus and was the first to see him when he rose from the dead. Mary of Bethany is well known for three key stories in the Bible. In Luke chapter 10, she is seen with her sister, Martha, as they welcome Jesus into their home. Martha is busy in the kitchen and Mary is sitting at the feet of Jesus, soaking in his presence. Martha tries to scold Mary for her laziness, but Jesus makes it known that Mary is exactly where she should be. In John chapter 12, we read that Mary anoints Jesus' feet with expensive perfume, and that “the house was filled with the fragrance of her perfume.” Though others saw this as a waste and a disruption, Jesus sees it as an act of worship and blesses her for anointing him before his burial soon to come. I love both of these stories. I love Mary’s reckless desire to worship Jesus. I love her desire to be with him and know him. I love that there is no where she would rather be than in his presence. I love that she could not care less what anyone else thought of her actions because she was with her Jesus. I love that in both of these stories, she is at his feet. She positions herself in complete surrender and devotion. I love these two stories. But my favorite illustration of Mary’s heart is in a less than pretty story. It is harsh and confusing and real. This story is one of the last stories I had the privilege to teach on during my time in Uganda. In John chapter 11, we meet Mary’s grief.

Jesus is informed that Lazarus, Mary and Martha's brother, is very sick. Knowing that Jesus is able to heal, everyone is surprised that Jesus does not rush to his side. Jesus is well aware that Lazarus is going to die, but he chooses to stay away. Jesus finally comes after Lazarus has been dead a few days.

When Jesus arrives, Martha goes out to greet him. Jesus and Martha have a special encounter where Martha exhibits deeply rooted faith and a great understanding of who Jesus is and the meaning of his life. It is a beautiful picture of who Martha is and the strength she carries even in her grief. But Mary remained at home. She didn't run to Jesus immediately, but stayed at home, wrapped up in her grief. But when Jesus calls for her, she is coaxed out of her pain.

28 After Martha had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary aside. “The Teacher is here,” she said, “and is asking for you.” 29 When Mary heard this, she got up quickly and went to him. 32 When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Where have you been?

Jesus knew that Lazarus was sick. He could have prevented his death. He could have prevented the grief and the pain of the loss. But he didn't.

There Mary is again, at the feet of Jesus. This time, instead of in reverence and worship, she ends up there out of desperation. But I find it to be just as beautiful.

John says that Jesus was moved by her grief. His spirit was deeply troubled. He wept. Spoiler: Jesus knew that he was going to restore Lazarus and bring him back to life. He knew that there was no reason to weep, yet he was still moved by Mary's grief and entered into her grief with her. What an incredible thing to know, that my God enters into my grief with me. Even though he knew that I would go back to Africa and these relationships would be restored. He knew that I was going to relearn joy and that my heart would come back to life again. He knows that earthly pain is temporary. But he still entered into my hurt, and hurt with me. Because he loves me. Because I'm his kid.

As you may or may not know, Jesus brings Lazarus back to life. He calls him out of the tomb, setting him free from death. Jesus tells them to remove his grave clothes, so that not even the stench of death is anywhere near the one who Jesus has called to life.

Leaving Uganda eight months ago broke my heart in half. I kicked the Holy Spirit right out of my life and joy was no longer alive in my heart.

But God restores the broken hearted. He restores life. He gave me the incredible gift of seeing those sweet children again. And through all of it, my trust in him has grown in ways I never thought possible. I know him. And I know I can count on him. He does not forget about me or drop the ball. I trust in his faithfulness. I trust that he keeps his promises.

My God is faithful. He is constant even when I am not- especially when I'm not. He brings life back into situations where it seems like there will never be life again. I believe that. I believe that God will always breathe life, even if things don't turn out like I planned, or like I think they should turn out. Even if I had never been able to go back to Mbale, I would still say he is faithful to bring life. I can't tell you what an amazing thing that is to believe; to know that no matter what, he's got it. I choose him. I choose joy.

Joy is alive, friends. And the King demands that not even the grave clothes shall remain.