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Falls in New Mexico were always pretty dreamy. I remember being immersed in a golden grove of Aspens on a mountain somewhere near Santa Fe thinking, “I wish everyone could experience this right now.” There were never words to attach to those moments, but something about those hikes stilled my soul. It was a vibrant beauty that none of my photos could capture, it was encapsulating of the whole self. As sunlight streamed through the quaking leaves, my heart burst with an unchained melody. Thin spaces – where heaven and earth seem to merge into one, for only a brief moment in time. 

For the seven falls that I lived there, escaping into the green-turned-yellow mountains was always a priority. Some years were better than others, but there was always that same feeling: everyone should get to bear witness to how beautiful this is. 

Up until last weekend, I hadn’t felt like that in a long while. Not with the same intensity, the same earnestness. This time, however, my surroundings had nothing to do with beautiful mountain scenes, or changing leaves, or the brisk fall breeze. 

Instead, I was seated between a woman from Ethiopia and a woman from Rwanda. Across from several men and women from Burma – representing their tribes: Karen, Karenni, Chin, Rawang. A pastor from the Democratic Republic of the Congo was also there. We had gathered a handful of refugees and former refugees that we know in Columbia so we could begin to directly hear from them about their needs and needs of their communities. 

I mostly listened as they introduced themselves in English, all with thick, rich accents. Some have only lived in Columbia a few years, while one has been resettled and helping others who continue to come for the last 28 years. And while, for many of them, their native tongue isn’t the same, they have found ways to communicate with their second or third language. Many from Africa can speak Swahili, even if their first language is different. Many from Burma can speak Burmese, even though every tribe has a different language. And, for this particular meeting, they all spoke English. 

I saw nods of agreement as they shared some of their similar, but very different experiences. Living in refugee camps, acclimating to life in America, taking care of each other as they navigated this new world. One gentleman shared about moving here from a jungle and how learning to drive had been a challenge. There was a lot of laughter in their shared journeys. Their joy was powerfully contagious.   

“It doesn’t take a language to help someone. It takes a heart”. One woman insisted on this, remembering the connection she had shared with one of our staff when language wasn’t something they could yet share. Beyond the ability to audibly understand each other, there was an alternative language being communicated: compassion, love, a desire to know the other, a longing to help. 

I marveled at the beauty I was seeing in my new friends – a soul-level, no words for it, type of gratitude. Again thinking, “I wish everyone could be here, I wish everyone could hear what I’m hearing, see what I’m seeing, know the people I am getting to know.” I felt deeply honored to be sitting there, among men and women who have known loss in ways I can’t begin to fathom and who are choosing every single day to not only put one foot forward, but who are actively working to help others. Many who are still aiding their families and friends who stayed behind. Many of them work hard to help those like themselves who have resettled in America. One man from Burma, readily opens up his home to more families who have no place to immediately reside. 

Among this culturally diverse group there was another common thread that stuck out to me: faith. The communities they spoke of were rooted in their churches, in a common belief system. God is real, alive, and moving deeply in their hearts and in their communities. He is who they find hope in. 

I could hear the echoes of my seminary classes on missions – to listen to my fellow believers from across the world. That they most likely have more to teach me about following Jesus than I have to teach them. 

My new friends laughed about their long church services, knowing full well the contradiction between American churches and theirs. Many of us Americans likely don’t have the time, or the patience, or the desire to be in church all day. But for them, it’s different. A man from the DRC told me recently about how his church service the previous weekend had felt a lot like “home” (Africa). These church services start in the early evening and go long into a Saturday night/early Sunday AM – every single week. 

The more this group chatted, the more I longed to hear more. I could have sat there for hours, honestly. My heart was swelling, longing for everyone to know. To know that within miles of their homes there may be people from Africa, Asia, Central America, South America, Europe … people who had to come here because staying wasn’t safe for their families. People who often don’t speak English, not because they haven’t tried or because they don’t want to… but because it’s hard or they are too busy trying to work so their families have enough to eat. People who possess a type of joy that is contagious and authentic. People who know a simplicity of life without all the distractions. 

People who have a lot to teach you and me. 

If only we listen. If only we desire to learn. 

Everyone should get to bear witness to the type of beauty that only comes about in the bringing together of many tribes, tongues, and nations. It’s where we will find ourselves together in the end (Rev 7)… and when you get the chance to experience a little bit of heaven on earth, you can’t help but want others to have that same opportunity as well. 

Thin spaces. 

Right in the middle of Missouri. 

God, you’re so good.

Tears welled in my eyes this morning as we sang the lyrics at church. 

I had to take a minute to process why the flood of emotions had attached themselves to this simple declaration that I had made thousands of times. 

The words have never been untrue, and at times, that’s been hard for my doubter-of-a-heart to believe. 

God, you’re so good. 

Even when…

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Or when my brother and sister-in-law gave birth to our stillborn first nephew after finding out he had Trisomy 13. Or when I struggled through years of singleness and then infertility. Or when we lost our jobs, our home, our community; an identity. Or when we found out that my barely 2-year-old niece had leukemia. Or when it took years to adopt the little girl who had quickly become our daughter. Or when my brother became the 1% of complications and lay open all night on an operating table because of an allergic reaction during open heart surgery. 

As I recounted God’s faithfulness through the valleys of uncertainty, fear, and heartbreak I have faced, I was alarmingly aware of his unwavering goodness. 

Today, I have the gift of perspective and time. Where I can look back and see how God has been good and present, even in some pretty bleak moments. 

He never changed. 

My circumstances may have, but His character has remained the same. He is steadfast. 

I think it’s why we are asked to REMEMBER a lot. 

Deuteronomy is filled with Moses pleading for the Isrealites to remember. 

Remember what God has done, how He brought you out of slavery, through a sea (what!), how He rained food from the sky – He took care of you in the lowest, hardest places. Your feet didn’t swell, your clothes didn’t wear out. 

You, God, are so good. 

How can we forget? 

And yet, sometimes, I do. 

We peer into a future of uncertainty, filled with fear and worry. We can’t see the other side of the sea and so we fret constantly about how we will get from here to there. How can we possibly make it out of this mess? How will we ever survive? There’s no way to escape – we are surrounded on all sides. It feels helpless. Our efforts get us nowhere – working through every human possibility, coming up empty-handed, coming up defeated. 

But then the sea is literally parted. A way forward now,  when there was no way. 

When we remember, we can’t help but come face to face with the God who can do immeasurably more than all we ask for or imagine. The God who knows our hearts better than we do. The One in whom we find refuge, strength, and comfort. 

The gift of time and perspective remind me that my plans, my hopes & dreams… they must be held loosely. Because God, in His goodness, has shown me over and over again that His ways are better. His ways are the ways that my human brain can’t even begin to fathom. 

He will get me from here to there. 

I don’t have to know how. I don’t even really need to know where “there” is… because His destination will always be better. 

Where I think I may want to go isn’t actually where I need to go. 

When I thought I needed to be married by a certain age, God showed me that it was infinitely better to wait. When I thought I must have biological children to be a successful woman, God showed me that His plan for our family would surpass my wildest dreams – a little girl that has radically transformed my world in some of the best ways. 

Scripture reminds me of the larger narrative. 

The truth of God’s goodness isn’t limited to me and what I have experienced. 

It expands beyond time, weaving its way into human hearts and souls since the very beginning. It’s a story we are invited into – over and over again. 

God, in His goodness, bringing to life what was dead, what was lost… because of how much He loves us. 

God, you’re so good.

I pray that, no matter how many times I sing or say it, that this truth dwells deep in my soul. That I would be a person who remembers, who declares it, who trusts it – despite the highest highs and the lowest lows. Even when I’m walking in the valleys of the unknown.

His goodness may look different than what I anticipate in the moment, but He is still good. 

All the time.

We just walked out of a restaurant with K screaming and crying. I wanted to assure all the other patrons that she’s not normally like this… she’s really delightful, usually. Disregard the tears, the yelling, and the snot, please. And Kathryn, please stop making a scene – everyone is looking. 

Let’s live our lives according to the script our culture has created for us. Or, at least the one that “looks” good. You know, the one that makes us look like we’re parents who have it all together and are doing a phenomenal job at raising our one child (I am still impressed by parents with multiple children who are able to get anywhere on time). It’s the scene where our daughter quietly and neatly eats her food, stays seated until we are ready to leave, and smiles sweetly at the elderly women sitting at the table next to us. 

Fit the part. 

I’ve never been really good at this. 

In some ways, Kathryn’s breakdown can feel a lot like how I want to live my life. A little like, “Listen people… I’m tired. I haven’t taken my nap all week, I don’t really understand the world yet or why things happen the way they do, and I just want what I want when I want it.”  

It’s sometimes alarming how often I can relate to an almost-three-year-old. 

But we carry on. As we get older, we get better at concealing the things the world tells us to hide. We get better at showing only what we think they want to see, what they’ll accept. Our audience grows larger and impossibly hard to please, because somewhere, somehow…there’s always a critic. And, perhaps over time, our largest critic becomes ourselves. 

She teaches me something about owning our messiness, our rawness. She reminds me that maybe it’s okay to not have it all together… to be human. That even 38-year-olds don’t really understand the world yet or why things happen the way they do. And sometimes, when things don’t go how we expected or planned, it’s pretty normal to be upset about it. 

And together, we get to learn that life goes on. Even when we don’t get to listen to Cocomelon in the car again, or when we have to put on our shoes to ride a bike. Perspectives shift when we get a glimpse of what is around the corner, when time passes, when the world isn’t actually over. 

I was watching Kathryn the other day laugh and play, unaware and unconcerned with how her body looks. Instead, she marvels about how “big girl” she is and what her body can do. She can jump far, ride her bike with training wheels, stand on her head, run so very fast… She laughs with joy when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. 

In these ways, I wish I were more like my three-year-old. It’s how I think we’re meant to be. Less bothered by the deepening wrinkles, more carefree about how I present myself each day. 

It pains my heart to know there will come a day when the simplicity and purity of her worldview will become convoluted and broken. Instead of a great appreciation for all that her body is capable of, she will instead (if history is any indication) be deeply consumed by how it looks, convinced it’s the thing that matters most about herself. Again, the script of our culture will eventually write itself onto the heart of an unassuming child, robbing her of an innocence she will never get back. She makes me want to fight against the current, to swim upstream despite the river’s force.

When her little mind doesn’t know how to find the words to say what she wants or needs, I often wonder what I do when I feel the same way. I’m past the point where hitting or yelling will suffice, but what do I do when we can’t verbalize all that lies just below the surface? How do we, as adults, cope? How do we interact with those around us? What did we learn was a safe way to process? Did we ever learn how to process, how to communicate? 

There is a lot to be gleaned in these days of toddler-hood. 

Lots that I can learn about myself and my own views of the world. Lots she can teach me about and remind me of – ways I can be more confident and sure of myself in a way that models the same for this little shadow of mine. Ways to reflect on my own coping mechanisms and processing of the events that unfold around me. 

It’s a cyclical pattern, of course.

I learn by watching her discover the world, and she learns by watching how I respond, hearing how I talk. 

It’s a beautiful dance, this dance of motherhood. 

Infuriatingly mesmerizing. 

One step at a time, figuring out a mother-daughter sequence that works for us, in an unknown world. Defined by love, one million (and more) of those second chances, and a whole lot of grace.

“How’s the new job?” 

I get asked this question a lot… and it’s hard for me to want to answer the question with a casual “good” that most people who ask are probably expecting. It’s like when someone asks how you are. How often do they really, R-E-A-L-L-Y want to know? 

To adequately answer the question, I have to back up several years. Because, when you take a job it doesn’t really ever start when your offer letter says that you start. There’s been a preparing that’s taken place – usually when you didn’t even know that’s what was going on. 

So rewind to a time when I’m working full-time in camp ministry while simultaneously chipping away at Master’s. It was a season filled with abundant learning; some of it practical and some of it theoretical. Topics surrounding leadership, management, the Bible, callings, shortcomings, passions, spiritual formation, and community. Some I was learning because I was in school, some I was learning because of my job, and some of it I was learning (quickly) because I was in seminary while also in ministry. (I’d highly actually recommend that pursuit —  immediate application helps it stick a little more). 

God’s Heart

While there had always been things in Scripture that caused some stirrings in my heart, at this juncture there was no denying them. I couldn’t escape the passages, the central themes, the very character of God’s heart that circled around His love for all people… especially the orphan, the poor, the widow, the foreigner. The more I studied, the more sure I was that this was a trait of God’s character that I needed to be more diligent in emulating. And while camp ministry as a whole provided me some opportunity for this in some ways, I was feeling called to it a little more directly. 

In my quest, we embarked upon various attempts to incorporate this in our lives. It’s a huge part of why we did foster care. It’s why we started serving food at the homeless shelter in Santa Fe once a month. It’s why I invited a homeless woman to live with us for a few weeks. It’s why we considered a drastic move to Costa Rica.

Our why was deeply rooted in a desire to carry out this call to care for those who have historically been left behind, forgotten. I wanted to do more, but I wasn’t ever sure how, or what. Suffice it to say that during that season I was often engaged in an internal battle, a growing dissatisfaction with an unclear idea of what actually needed to change. 

We left camp almost 2 years ago exactly.

Not because we wanted to, not because we chose to… but, we are now assured even more in hindsight, it was time. Due to a mix of COVID-19, massive lay-offs, and probably a million other reasons we won’t ever know the answers to – we packed our camp-life up and blindly took steps into whatever was next. God was most evidently sovereign in our being let go, bringing us to Missouri, and giving us a season to be. All of it had been preparation – of that I am certain. 

It wasn’t until 1.5 years later that I came across a job that tugged at those slightly rusty heartstrings. I had, after all, been spending all of my time taking care of our sweet little one (an orphan – in almost every sense of the word). In reality, I knew taking any job – spending any hours away from K – would mean that the job had to be something I was deeply excited about. The why had to coincide with those urgings God had begun stirring in me several years prior. 

New Neighbors

Crazily enough, it’s already been 10 months of working at City of Refuge. My every day is filled with the unexpected… and every day we are coming alongside the foreigners who now reside in our town. They are our new neighbors.

They are people who had to leave everything behind because their lives were being threatened by war or persecution. People who had to leave quickly – sometimes with nothing more than a backpack. People who have lived in refugee camps for years and years before finally making it out. People who struggled to get on airplanes out of Kabul as the Taliban advanced in Afghanistan last August. They were teachers, or doctors, or farmers, or directors of organizations – and now they are putting one foot in front of the other, longing to thrive; working hard to start over. 

The hurdles are enormous.

Learning a new language is hard, especially as an adult. American culture is very different from the many countries our new friends are coming from in almost every way. The things we value are different. Our individualism, compared to their community/family-centered way of life, is confusing. 

My world gets bigger – every single day. 

Because, even when gas costs almost $100 to fill a tank, I remember that I can still afford to fill the tank. That I have a car to fill a tank. That I have a car that will reliably get me from home to work and back every day. I know how to drive. The street signs are written in my language. I know that a stoplight means I should stop. I know when a police officer pulls me over, I should stay in my car and not get out. If my car were to break down, I would know who to call and that I would easily be able to communicate with whomever I’d call. I’d know how to call an insurance agent and file a claim. 

There are a billion small examples wrapped up in the idea of transportation that most Americans don’t think twice about. At least I didn’t. I’m alerted to new challenges each day – partially because I still feel “new”, partially because each individual has a unique set of circumstances that might require an entirely new thing to figure out (like one of our staff being named an executor of a will), and partially because every culture has different approaches or things about it that mean a sharp learning curve. 

The People We Meet

And the people we get to meet and know are exceptionally kind and generous. Our office has been filled with random delicious foods – Eritrean and Burmese cuisine at our fingertips. Our team is filled with radically selfless people — the kind who jump in to help each other out in a pinch, the ones who throw on some gloves and pick up all the trash outside the dumpster that was misplaced over the weekend. Our city is filled with incredibly generous people – the ones who give when we share needs.

My days are filled with a random assortment of tasks – sometimes it’s calling the fire department, or managing a conflict, or meeting with a donor or a staff member, or chatting with a refugee or getting them an item from the basic needs closet, or working with developers on a database, or submitting payroll, or sending invoices, or reconciling the monthly budget, or prepping for a Board Meeting, or strategically figuring out how we can more efficiently and effectively meet more needs while still holding true to our core values of relationship and truly caring for others. Today, an Afghan friend walked in looking for me to help his cousin fill out an application to work at the McDonald’s down the street. And… there’s a lot more to actually add to that list, but you get the idea. 

It’s fulfilling, rewarding work. 

So when I get asked how the job is going, I want to be able to quickly sum up all of the above and more. Because without a context for how I got here, some of the “good” feels lost.

The reason it’s good is because the Lord was putting this very work on my heart years ago without me ever knowing City of Refuge existed. The reason it’s good is because I can see the multitude of ways that my previous experiences and jobs have prepared me for this role – and that is really humbling and beautiful to me. The reason it’s good is because I feel like I’m living out a calling that seems close to God’s heart. The reason it’s good is because we are helping real people while simultaneously being blessed by them in the process. The reason it’s good is because only God could have put me in this role at this exact time, for such a time as this. 

I’ll try to share more as we continually grow and seek to meet the needs of more people. I grow increasingly more convinced that part of my role as a believer is to simply bear witness to all that God is doing. This is a way for me to do that: to write, to share.

If you’re interested in receiving bi-weekly updates from City of Refuge, sign up here! OR, follow along on our social media pages (Facebook, Instagram). 

Maybe your world will get bigger, too.

I used to not care about Advent. Honestly, I didn’t really even understand it. All I knew was that at church before the sermon, some family would get up on stage, read a section in Scripture about the birth of Jesus, and light a candle. Or that there were little calendars with candy pieces for each day prior to Christmas that we would open.

I didn’t realize how Advent could prepare me. Or remind me. Or change me.

I missed a lot growing up… I missed a lot in my twenties. I wonder often what I’m still missing in my thirties. I’d like to think that I’ve now wholly embraced the fullness of Advent, but I know there’s still much to learn.

Join Me?

I’m wondering if you’d consider joining me in the quest to learn and grow. If you’d be willing to engage with Advent in a way that alters our daily choices, be it ever-so-slightly.

For the past few years, this has been a conscious decision that coincides with my longing for new habits (maybe yours, too?). These are the habits that recenter me and remind me that Jesus is King. Habits that make me pause, slow down, shift my focus. They don’t have to be lifelong habits, either. Maybe they are just habits that you adopt for the few weeks of Advent (but maybe they become habits that transform the things we truly long for…). Wouldn’t that be something?

There are tons of resources for this. Resources that help us choose to be people who are willing to change/add/subtract one thing so that Jesus reigns a little more in our hearts this holiday season.

Maybe we choose to read Scripture before jumping on social media for the next four weeks. Or perhaps we commit to prayer in ways we haven’t in a long while. Or what if we actively approach life – people, circumstances, current events – with a desire to first understand instead of assuming we know all, or know best? What if we gave… and what if that giving actually cost us something?

2020 Advent

Last year, Kel and I chose to engage with Advent in a bit of a different way. We used many of these basic elements, lighting a candle each evening while playing Matt Maher’s “Hope for Everyone” (a song we had seen him perform live a few years back that has stuck with us through Advent every since). We are waiting on the promise. For the one who lights the darkness. Bending low to be among us. We swayed to those lyrics for weeks before dinner each night. Pausing. Remembering. Waiting.

2020 had been a hard year. Probably for all of us. 2021 might not be that much different. These little shifts and acknowledgements through those weeks leading up to Christmas served a “re-setting” of sorts, though.

Reminders of hope. Reminders that my circumstances don’t define me – neither does my job, my marital status, my ability to bear children biologically, or the accolades of others.

I got to be reminded every day that we are still waiting, still anticipating the fullness of the Gospel realized. I was reminded that Jesus came, when He didn’t have to…. when I don’t deserve for Him to. That He chose us, chooses us, when we still choose other things over Him daily. It brings out awe and wonder. It draws forth tears.

It makes me pause.

It helps create a little of that space. ‘Thin places’ where heaven and earth collide for a mere instant. Hope is found. Not in our humanity, of course. Despite our humanity. Despite the division, the despair, the loneliness, the inability to reconcile, the unwillingness to look past ourselves… our needs, our wounds, our being ‘right’.

Throughout Advent, we readily acknowledge the ‘already but not yet’. That Jesus has come, He has conquered, the work has been finished, and we readily await His return. We exist in our broken day-to-day of miscommunication, taking things too personally, feeling inadequate, wanting to quit… and we simultaneously take a deep breath to remember The Promise. We are waiting on The Promise.

A day when all that is wrong will be righted. Where justice will reign. Where tears will be wiped away. Where death is defeated.

Will you wait with me?

Will you exist in the tension with me? Coming, broken, but holding tightly to the hope that we have? Will you declare the goodness of God, even when it can feel like He has turned away? Can you celebrate in His provision, even if it can feel like he lead you out of Egypt into the wilderness of wandering? Can we trust His timing, His ways, His views that are so much higher…?

Sometimes I forget to wait with expectation. To wait with hope. Anticipation. Sometimes I wait with anger, with defeat, with insecurity and despair.

Come with me this Advent. Let’s wait with crazy anticipation. Let’s believe the promises of our King. Let’s share what we learning, let’s rejoice together.

Change/add/subtract one thing these next 4 weeks with the intent of refocusing, re-centering, remembering, drawing near to the Father… waiting on The Promise.

Maybe it will change us. Maybe it can change even those around us. There’s hope for everyone.

Kel and I were driving home from a musical a while back, chatting away for the hour ride on the dark highway. He was sharing about his high school days, hurts long forgotten but readily accessible (you know- those hurts that are maybe not as forgotten as we pretend to think).

It felt a little like a conversation you might have when you’re dating. Getting-to-know-you conversations vs. we’ve-been-married-for-seven-years conversations. Times where you really listen to what the other person is saying. Moments when you try to actually care about how that has shaped them into the person they are today. We are sometimes really bad at this. Or, at least, I am. Sometimes it feels easier to pick up my phone and disengage.

But instead of distracting ourselves away from each other, we chose to press in. We talked about our angsty teenage moments where we pondered the deeper complexities of life and what our purpose was in this world. Things we felt with earnest intensity and passion. Things we processed on drives alone late at night (him) or soaking in a bubble bath while “writing” songs that gave a preview of the state of my heart (me).

“I don’t have those types of moments anymore… not with the depth in which I did, anyway…” He confessed to me.

I got the chance to tell him that just the other day, after I had dropped K off at preschool, that I had been struck deeply, profoundly on my way to work. It was “picture” day at work, too (read: updating headshots for our website). And here I was, a blubbering fool — moved beyond words by God’s love for our daughter. That He had known her, loved her before I did. He had always been with her… when I have not.

It was felt deep within my soul. A comfort, almost. No matter what may come, I hope I can communicate this to her as she continues to grow. The depth of love for her extends far beyond what my human, sinful self can offer or provide. Patient, slow to anger, abounding in love. This is the character of God.

My very foggy and faint reflection of Him is only able to move forward when I remember His mercy and grace. Offered to her. Offered to me. The gospel, this good news, lest I forget it.

I need the space to remember.

Otherwise, I do forget. And when I forget, my life is driven by things that don’t matter. Like kittens on Craigslist or the NYT daily crossword puzzle or house-hunting on Zillow. Because even when I eradicate the things I’ve deemed “unhealthy” for me (like social media or binge watching television shows), I still easily fill my time with pointless things. Or, things that I justify as “most important” (like work or reading or more bubble baths).

Instead of sitting in the quiet. Instead of really listening to the people right next to me.

But when I put my phone down… when I turn the music off…. when I shut my computer… when I make space for others, for Jesus…

Life feels a little different. A little more like it should. Mundane maybe, yes. But real. My real. Nothing glamorous or glitzy. I engage more with the 2-year-old given to me, I listen to the husband who committed to live life alongside me, or I more fully worship the God who created me. There’s less to distract me. I’m less consumed by the million things I can’t control (but want to), and more concerned with being in the moment I’m in.

I wish it were easier

And maybe eventually it will be. But I have to actively choose it- multiple times a day. I have to choose to be present… I have to choose to make the space. It won’t just… “happen”. The space changes my perspective, it broadens my worldview. In that space, I catch glimpses of how deep the Father’s love really is… and that inevitably changes how I view (and then treat) my husband, my child, my family… my neighbor.

This space reminds me what actually matters. It reminds me that I can’t possibly reflect the image of the One whom I long to look like if I’m not convening with Him often. I can’t possibly care for others in the way that I long to, in the way that He asks me to, in the way that HE does… if I’m not ever with Him. I don’t just want to look a certain way, or act a part… I want it embedded deep within. So much so, that I can’t help but….

Maybe you’ll journey with me?

Moment-by-moment, wading into the grace that goes before us and picks up after us. Maybe we can help each other remember to slow, to make space, to listen. To remember that our allegiance lies beyond the scope of our temporary here and nows. It’s a re-setting of sorts. A being, that maybe we’ve forgotten how to make time for.

It’s nothing I can do alone. So I’ll try to write more in the process. Maybe you’ll write back. Or maybe we’ll have coffee or Marco Polo or connect through the inter-webs. I’d like that. We need the depth of other humans, we other perspectives and experiences. We need to share together in such a way that reminds us to look heavenward, and to live faithfully in the ‘already but not yet’. To really engage with the people next to us, with the God who created us.

…to make space to remember…

I got a job.

If you haven’t heard, I have officially joined the City of Refuge team here in Columbia, Missouri. In a role, in an organization, and supporting a cause that I am growing more and more passionate about (especially the more that I learn about it).

It happened rather quickly- but even in the rush, the timing felt sort of “perfect”. It wasn’t a job that I was exactly looking for. In fact, I had told myself that if I ever went back to working full-time, it would have to be a role, an organization, a cause that I could be passionate about.

We work hands-on with refugees in a multitude of ways from a multitude of countries. In my month and a half on the job, I have already met so many kinds souls – from the staff, to the refugees, to the many who donate, to the board of directors, to the volunteers. People from all over, from all different backgrounds – giving of themselves for the sake of others. People giving their time, their resources, their dollars, their skills.

It is a beautiful thing. A truly inspiring thing.

I didn’t hear about the job and immediately apply. It took a lot of praying. A lot of prodding (from my husband and a few others). Honestly, it took courage – having to deliberately ignore my fear of failure and rejection. It meant stepping into the unknown, embracing yet another identity shift… and, probably most challenging: it meant figuring out childcare.

I do believe that it truly it could not/would not have happened without the Lord intervening/moving/preparing our family and me in ways I probably won’t ever know about.

A Great Multitude

One night, while I was praying about this particular job in this particular organization, Revelation 7 came to mind. …A great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages…

This, I felt from Deep Within.

This is an image of Kingdom of God. This is what I try to pray with my daughter every day – Your Kingdom come, Your will be done… on earth as it is in heaven. A gathering of people from various nations, tribes, tongues here in central Missouri. A multitude of people – who look different, sound different, have vastly different experiences, traditions and cultures – people who have as much to teach me (and probably more) than I have to teach them.

This is it. The cause, the purpose, the reason to rejoin the workforce. Perhaps the beginnings of a foggy reflection of the Kingdom of heaven – here on earth.

I don’t know much yet, but I’m excited to learn and grow into this position. I’m excited to work with the staff, the volunteers, and the refugees. I’m eager to put my past experiences and my skillset to good use as we dream about possibilities and meet the real, tangible needs of our neighbors.

What do you all actually do?

Already, in my short time on staff, I have grown alarmingly aware of how much I take for granted. My compassion has grown as I awkwardly fumble through gestures that hopefully span the language gap in order to communicate to the woman across from me that the medicine she is holding shouldn’t be used on small children.

When I remember what it’s like to be in a foreign country, where nothing looks, feels, sounds, smells familiar… or when I haven’t been able to speak the language to ask a simple question to address my most basic needs. And then to imagine being in that circumstance, not because I want to be, but because I have to be (did you know that the very definition of a ‘refugee’ means to have been forced to leave their country in order to escape war, persecution, or natural disaster?). To be in this new country permanently, away from the culture, the traditions, the food, the people that I love…

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine relying on your 6-year-old child to translate for you because they picked up the language faster? Or having your car break down and not knowing who to call or what to do (let alone learning how to drive in America, in the first place). Can you imagine getting a piece of mail that says “IMPORTANT: MUST READ” and not knowing that you can actually throw it away? Imagine going to the doctor for any reason when you don’t speak English.

This is the reality so many of these beautiful humans are living. Pile on the amount of trauma that occurs as a person works through whatever tragedy brought them here. Imagine the isolation you might feel, the lack of connection with other people.

And then imagine what it might be like if someone reached out in true kindness. If someone helped you navigate the language barrier. If someone spent time in your home to teach you English. If someone took you to your doctor’s appointment, showed up at your car crash, enrolled your child in the complicated school system, gave you clothes to wear and food to eat.

This is what our team is actively doing in our community. Building relationships. Meeting needs. Living radically and selflessly. They rock.

I’m sure you’ll hear more from me as we continue embark on this next adventure. Maybe you’ll consider partnering with us – even if you live nowhere close to mid-Missouri!

Baby K Update

And because many of you are probably wondering, we still have K. She just turned 2 and makes us laugh constantly. She’s smart, beautiful, and a joy to live life with. We haven’t been able to officially adopt yet, but we hope it will be soon….

As far as childcare goes- since Kel has been rockin’ the real estate world, he has been afforded the time and flexibility to be on full-time dad duty as we navigate our family transition. It has been a really sweet time for dad and daughter to have these days to bond. She also just started 2 mornings at a local pre-school and is going to spend another morning each week with her Aunt and two cousins – we are so so grateful!

And as always, we covet your prayers! For transitions, new beginnings, adoptions… whatever else that comes to mind.

“We did not select you to proceed to the next stages of the application process.” 

I rushed through the rejection email, convincing myself that if I deleted the email quickly enough, I could pretend it hadn’t happened. No one would have to know. 

The speedy actions of my fingers on the keyboard didn’t tamp out the sting I still felt. 
It was a remote job I had applied to – sort of on a whim, sort of because I was curious about it. Once they saw my resume and application, I was certain that I would be the one interviewing them for the job. 

But here I was, literally staring rejection in the face. Again. 

My new reality has stirred up a lot about identity, value, worth. 
I’m in an ocean of unknown territory. It’s a new ocean, but it brings about familiar memories from days long ago. 

The waves come and, as they hit, they cause me to feel unwanted or inadequate. There is reprieve as they settle, but I know looming in the distance more are on the horizon. Sometimes they will sweep me up, toss me around, and I struggle to find my way back to the top of the surface where I remember that I can breathe and that I’ll have better perspective. In the cartwheel of no oxygen, I scrape the bottom and my eyes sting with saltwater. For a moment, I feel like I’m drowning. 

In these moments, I often have gut-wrenching conversations with the Lord as I realize how easily I continue to equate my worth to productivity. Somewhere in me, I continue to believe that if I prove myself, I’ll be more satisfied. Do this and you’ll be something. You’ll matter in this world. You’ll have proven that you’re capable, qualified, reliable. You’ll have “arrived”. 

It’s a silly lie. But it’s a real one. 
One that my rational, mature, intellectual self can recognize and battle. But in my weaker moments, on my weaker days, I can slip into lapses of self-defeat, self-doubt, self-loathing. This is the collision where my stroke fails at the very instant the wave breaks and I find myself upside-down, gasping for air underwater, eyes burning, wondering if this time I’ll make it out unscathed. 

Sometimes it makes me fear the ocean. 
Sometimes it causes me to want to stay on the shore. The satisfaction of the water doesn’t always feel worth being violently tossed to and fro. Sometimes, in my most fragile state, I can’t bear the thought of entering into the abyss of the unknown… not knowing where I will land at the end of it all. It feels easier to stay where I know I’m safe. Or, at least, safer. 

But here I am. 
Facing a new ocean. A new reality. New fears. New dreams. And while I can generally be strong and courageous, there are instances where I really do wonder if I have enough in me to start over, to begin again, to make new friends, to find a new team, to face the chorus of rejection that generally comes when you put yourself out there. To come back to the surface after I eat sand at the bottom. 

And these are the conversations with God that remind me that my worth cannot be found in doing. I have had a to take a good, hard look at the mirror the last several months as process through the events in my life and in the world around us lately. 

There have been sporadic minutes between the baby’s naps that I have chosen to avoid the mirror because I haven’t wanted to give myself an honest look. Minutes where it’s easier to scroll through social media and judge the myriad of opinions, comments, and controversy. Minutes where it’s easier to stay up with the news — learning about the latest coronavirus numbers, devastation, and impacts. But there are other minutes when I hop on the mower and I cannot escape. Here I realize that there is still pain and fear….there are still wounds that take time to heal. There are other minutes where I open Scripture and am ever-aware of God’s promises, of His faithfulness throughout the entirety of mankind. Here I realize that I will be okay… this will be okay. That He will fulfill His purpose for me (Psalm 138). 

All too often I can convince myself that I am capable… on my own. Able to achieve, conquer, do anything, be anything… 

And then I am brought back to my knees, assured that my most vulnerable dependence brings a strength I cannot produce on my own. That the humiliation of the mirror transpires into a fortitude of faith that necessitates willingness, discipline, and courage. 

I wish I could scream that I am strong, able, and resilient. 
But I must confess that I am weak, scared, and dependent. 

There are many more conversations to be had between God and I, as He gently reminds me about who I am and, more importantly, who He is. And as I stand on the shore, scared to jump back in again, waiting for the waves to calm down… I marvel that He is so patient with my fears, my wounds, my insecurities. I am in awe of how He takes care of me, no matter how big the waves have been, no matter how unsteady I have felt. 

What kindness. 
What mercy. 
What love. 

Of this I am sure: I am not alone. 
This ocean will not swallow me. 

The overarching feeling over the last week is: gratitude.

It’s been a crazy but slow, surreal but real, terrifying but calm kind of week. And while there were moments of despair, there were many more moments of doing what is needed, despite the pit growing in your stomach as the hours slog on without word… there were still reasons to be thankful, still reasons to smile. Sometimes that feels insane to me.

Because life still goes on.
Babies still cry.
Kids still need to eat.
And sometimes, somehow, the most significant thing in front of you isn’t whether your brother will live or die, but the diffusing of a brotherly quarrel. Or being present enough to be goofy and ridiculous and in the moment. To be safe and steady, so those around you don’t fall apart.

And as the clock ticked, as the waiting brought fear and the dread of the worst news possible… we were surrounded by a cloud of support and prayer. A local community who dropped everything to bring food, toys, wine… a kind neighbor with a miraculous bag of soccer balls… money coming in from faces of the past (sometimes even unknown faces – friends of family or friends)… texts, messages, notes of encouragement and thoughtfulness. A time when the world can feel so divided, but we have had the beautiful privilege of seeing and experiencing how united humanity can be. Gratitude. 

I’ve been ever aware of the things I don’t deserve. The things I’m not entitled to. The things that are a gift, each and every day. Breath. Life. Family. Health. Grace. Mercy. People who love, people who give… and ask for nothing in return. Gratitude.

When I was first considering coming to Massachusetts, I was plagued by a lot of uncertainty. While I wanted to be here to help, it initially meant leaving behind our baby, it meant risking coronavirus and potentially bringing it to my brother. But Kel requested to join me, along with our baby – which brought a set of more challenges. While it meant we would be together, it meant we would have 5 kids: a 7-year-old, two 6-year-olds, two babies (9 months and 10 months). It meant Kel couldn’t begin real estate and that a reliable income for us would get delayed. It meant my mom and dad would have to keep our giant dogs, the cat, and the plants alive while we were gone. It meant more people potentially more exposed, which meant a higher risk of bringing coronavirus with us. It meant disrupting barely established rhythms for Baby K.

But Kel said, “It’s better when we’re together”. We’re a team. He supports me, I support him. I’ve never been more grateful for his persistence in joining me… and maybe never been more humbled by his love for me. When you say your vows on your wedding day, you can’t possibly anticipate the bumps you’ll encounter along the journey. Kel has effectively loved me by loving my family in some of the most beautiful ways.

One of my brother’s biggest concerns was that his boys were going to have a miserable summer… dad with open heart surgery on top of a pandemic. Any chance of fun had been thrown out the window. But, introduce Uncle Kel and suddenly we have a Pokémon playmate, a superhero guru, a soccer coach, and man who laughs easily while also establishing boundaries. This uncle is also a man who graciously does the dishes, helps the boys make pancakes, changes the poopy diapers, sweeps the floors, plays with the babies— and uses the spare moments to complete assignments for his online college and do some onboarding for his new real estate job. A man who lets me weep in his arms, without trying to fix it or explain away the mysteries of life. A man who stepped instantly into fatherhood with love and selflessness. Gratitude. 

We have a lot to be thankful for. A lot that hasn’t been promised to us.

And the most striking part of this entire experience has been the way people love. True reflections of of Jesus in this world. I’m inspired to look more like Him because of the people around me lately… to be an unlikely giver, a selfless lover, a go-out-of-my-way caretaker, a postpone-my-plans to be present liver, a shut-up-and-listen speaker. A person who is moved by the Spirit in action, word, and prayer.

I know we’re all sifting through a lot right now. Processing grief. Responding to change. Defending what we believe is right and good. Searching for courage in the face of fear and the unknown. Clinging to the glimpses of hope in this world.

Not all is lost.
In the midst of despair, there always remains a reason to be thankful. A reason to smile. A purpose to this life. At my brother’s house, there is a framed writing that I’ve spent a lot of time staring at. It simply reads, “If you gave your life to love them, so will I.”

It cost Him everything.
For this broken humanity, God gave up everything. Even while we were His enemies. The gospel is unbelievable, unimaginable, unfathomable good news. How we respond means everything…

Thanks for reflecting Jesus to me/my family. For reminding me of the sacrifice, the cost, the selflessness that comes with love and the many different ways love can look. But love always costs something. Time. Words. Safety. Money. Pride. Comfort. Something. 

Hold your people closer tonight.
Say the things you want to say, even if they sound too sappy or out of nowhere. Even if it means you might be left exposed and vulnerable. Forgive the people who have hurt you… in case you run out of time. Ask to be forgiven from those whom you have hurt… in case you run out of time. Give, when that little prompting tugs at your heart- maybe in words, maybe with your time, maybe with money. Listen to those that are different than you. Show up. Watch the dogs. Mow the lawn. Water the plants. Consider what love has cost you lately.

Matt came home today. A miracle. A gift. Gratitude.

We will be in MA one more week as Matt and Megan ease into a new normal for the foreseeable future. Pray for Matt’s recovery to be swift and for Megan, as she handles the rest of the houses’ needs – it’s a lot. The church and local community here has been incredible, and for that, I am once again grateful to leave them in good hands.

Thank you, friends and family.
There are no other words…. but gratitude. 

It’s been a crazy year, to say the least. A lot of unimaginable things have happened. Probably most of us can say that.

It’s certainly a little weird to move home in the middle of a pandemic. It mostly feels like a really long vacation without a ton of freedom to move about and get to know new people or get “plugged in” to things in Columbia. I haven’t been sad about that yet. I feel grateful to be able to soak in the time, my family, the sun, and watching our sweet baby grow. I don’t feel as divided. I don’t feel as rushed, as hurried…I don’t feel a pressure to produce (unless we are talking about the plants I brought bearing fruit). I love that Baby K gets to be with Mumsy and Pops every day and that I can learn from them as I figured out this whole parenting business. 

It’s a new way of life. 

With new rhythms and habits and freedoms.