Mostly okay

Like many of us, last week felt like a particularly challenging one. On whatever side of the coin you landed on - Trump or Clinton or somewhere in between - you probably experienced some hurtful words, negative reactions, and overall heaviness. I may not know your particular story or how you arrived on your side of the coin, but I understand your heaviness. I understand the weight of feeling like your voice is not being heard (and yes, I do believe that is happening on both sides).

Last week felt heavy because I was at odds with people I really care about. I felt heavy because I experienced pain and confusion and hurt with people I love. It felt like many people in my circle of influence were either questioning, feeling misunderstood, feeling attacked, feeling devalued, feeling judged, or feeling challenged as we tried to communicate and grasp it all.

Let me tell you, it was not easy to listen last week. For someone who spends a lot of time listening, the last thing I wanted to do was seek to understand. I did not wish to empathize. I did not desire middle ground. There was no silver lining, there was no dialogue. You were wrong and I was right and that was it.

But that was wrong.

I'm sorry. For those of you that I hurt by my quick reactions, my long moments silence, and my rants, I am sorry.

I don't feel bad for feeling what I felt. It was lament and it was appropriate. I don't believe in always shoving our feelings down for the sake of keeping the peace. I don't think that's healthy and I know that leads to bitterness and contempt. I was hurting. My pain was real and my fears were valid.

At the same time, I know I was a lesser version of myself. I was not gentle, I was not kind, I did not love the other, and I sought to speak before I sought to listen. I recently learned that hurt people hurt people. In other words, if I am hurting, it's almost certain I will hurt others. That's not who I want to be.

In all seasons, but in this particular one, I want to be kinder and more understanding. I want to welcome different perspectives more than I have in the past. And I want to be gentle in a world that can sometimes feel so divisive. I really do believe in the power of sharing our stories and journeys. I believe it can build connections and bridges where there were none before. I'm mostly okay. I still have questions and some lingering hurt, but I'm mostly okay.

Home, again.

All the transitions I've experienced this year have been challenging. In some ways I maybe should have expected it, in other ways I could not have foreseen any of it.  

For those of you who I've talked to about my life this year, or the few times I've taken time to write about it, the general theme has been summed up in the word fascinating. 

It's been fascinating to experience my life unfold before my eyes. In general I have noticed that I understand the importance and weight of a season in hindsight. I think it's fairly rare to feel the importance and weight of a season of life in the actual moment. I was able to soak everything in because I knew something important was happening; something of lasting value was in my midst and I had to grasp it with all that I had in me. 

Still, I found that the season seemed to fly by and, like sand running through my fingers, it slipped away a little too quickly. Goodbye's were said, tears were shed, and I found myself saying "I already miss it" probably sooner than I could have actually missed it.

I'm the type of person that gets attached to people, places, and experiences. Essentially, every noun. I always hated the end of the school year, even in high school and college. While most were overly-eager to go get the heck out of there, I often found myself thinking "can't we just hold on a little longer?" I even dislike things like New Year's Eve, oddly enough. Because it signals the end of something, no matter how great or horrible the year was. More importantly, it signals the beginning of something unknown, something new, something with so much potential that it's kind of scary. 

The beginning of something new is a vulnerable place to be. It's like standing at the edge of the water (Ocean or Lake. Thanks Minnesota). It's like standing at the edge of the water knowing that it's going to be cold upon entering and that initially I might say "why did I ever get in?" Slowly but surely, however, the body adjusts and I realize how much I actually love it. Then there are moments of panic when the waves crash into me or when my feet can no longer touch the ground. I feel a slight pull in my stomach. I feel a momentary terror that says "see, you shouldn't have gotten in." But each time, I find my footing, I find my breathe, I ride the waves, and I'm okay. 

Moving to Minnesota changed me. It changed my perspective on the world. It changed how I viewed myself in mostly positive ways. It forced my to rely on other people when I'm someone that doesn't exactly like to do that. Minnesota made me appreciate both the warmth of the sun and the frigidness of the dead of winter. Minnesota helped me understand that, just like the seasons change, we are always in a cycle of becoming. Becoming what? Only you can figure that out. Sometimes we wither away. Sometimes the coldest of nights are when you find the most warmth in people. We come back to life, yes, we come back to life and get to breath in the freshness of spring. 

So I am again at the beginning of something new in a place that is familiar. Adjusting to old streets, old familiar faces, and the hustle and bustle of a place I will always long for. I've been to the coast again and experienced the tremendous power of the waves and the wind on the beach. I've experienced traffic once again where the only question that can be asked is, "Where is everybody going?" 

I find myself here. Knowing full well that I can call multiple places home and realizing what a wonderful blessing that actually is. It is of course challenging. It is in some ways fascinating. It is in many ways wonderful. So I will enjoy being here: home, again. Until I find myself back there: home, again. 

{Lights Out}

 

"God puts out our lights to keep us safe because we are never more in danger of stumbling than when

we think we know where we are going. When we can no longer see the path we are on, when we can no longer read the maps we have brought with us or sense anything in the dark that might tell us where we are, then and only then are we vulnerable to God's protection. This remains true even when we cannot discern God's presence. The only thing the dark night requires of us is to remain conscious. If we can stay with the moment in which God seems most absent, the night will do the rest."

I've been wrestling a lot with this idea of darkness while reading this book called "Learning to Walk in the Dark." The book essentially is asking me this question: How often have I run away (or tried to run away) from something I considered to be dark/scary/lonely/unknown/whatever it is that I fear most?

Kind of like the quote above says, I truly believe God has knocked my lights out this year. The biggest thing in my life has been my transition to MN and Bethel University. It's been hard, lonely, fun, challenging, unique, and so full of the love that cannot begin to explain it. It's the best thing I've done in my young life and I'm so genuinely glad that I'm here.   

The one thing I keep coming back to is the reality that I did not want this.   

I did not want God to pluck me from everything I'd ever known into something completely different, completely outside of my comfort zone, completely strange, something completely dark. 

I had a plan. I had a direction I wanted my life to go in. I had the road map and the sense that I was in control and God slapped it out of my hands and said, "This way."  

I started reading Exodus and I feel like I'm Moses (LOL no, I don't actually think I AM Moses). But I resonate with his response. In the beginning of Exodus, God has heard the groaning of His people and has called upon Moses to be the one to help rescue Israel. God appears to Moses in a burning bush and begins by explaining all that He is. He is holy, He is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, He knows the sufferings of His people, and He wants to set them free from captivity (Ex. 3: 7-10). After explaining all of that, Abraham's first response is not, "Yes, Lord, send me" or "Sweet let's do this."

After hearing directly from the God of the universe, Moses says "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the children of Israel out of Egypt?" (Ex. 3: 11) Moses, understandably in my opinion, questions God's call on his life. 

That's exactly what I did.  

God told me that I needed to move away because there was something out here for me that I needed to learn. God reminded me of His faithfulness & love throughout my life. Yet, my first response was "Who am I?" Who do I think I am? What makes me think that I could actually do this? Who do I think I am if I truly believe I could make it out there on my own? 

What I've truly come to believe is that God heard the groaning of my heart. I longed for authentic community. I longed for growth. I longed to give myself away in for something genuinely good. God has provided all of those things and so much more here at Bethel. He has surrounded me with the most loving RA community I could have ever dreamed of. He has surrounded me with residents who are so fun and light-hearted. He has surrounded me with a staff that has loved me in my hardest moments.  

Most importantly, however, God has knocked my lights out.

From something I did not want to something I can't imagine living without, God has completely knocked my lights out. He took away all sense of direction, He took away all sense of comfort, He took away all sense of my control and said "This way. Enough with the games and enough with the talk. It's time for you to really trust Me and the only way I can do that is by making all things dark."

You see, in a way I feel as if I am finally living and running on all cylinders. It is dark out here, but not always in the sense that is scary. It is dark because I have finally allowed God to take hold of my life (I'm still learning that every day and will continue to learn that all the days of my life) and take me in the direction He knows best. I am still scared, I still have questions, and I often peak out from under this darkness to try and regain some control in my life.

Moses and myself asked God, "Who am I?" In other words, "I'm scared. I don't want to do this. Can it be another way?"  

God response was, "But I am with you." And I'm slowly learning that that is enough.