For Eddie

His name was Eddie, and he was a rescue. He was an older guy - somewhere over ten years old, I think. He was a mutt too. There is not really sense in saying he was part this or that because who the hell knows what ancestral lines came together to make him who was. (Though he leaned significantly toward Pit Bull, if you need to know.)

I had known Eddie for a about a year, as I had become his dog sitter, and he was one of my first clients when I started my business. He had two other brothers, also rescues. One was like an old sailor trapped in the body of a tiny Boston Terrier - cranky joints, one eye he could barely see out of, completely deaf, and he would have these cough spasms any time he rounded a corner too fast. The other, a type of shepherd who was both cautious and coy, and even though he is 10 years old, he could jump the fence even as you were screaming, “Come back right now, you little punk!” at the top of your lungs, chasing after him as fast as you could go.

A motley crew, and my crew for weeks at a time.

Here’s why Eddie was my favorite of the bunch. He had a weight problem and he was the largest of the bunch - he absolutely loved food and was motivated by it (who can't relate?) He also had a lung condition, so like his Boston Terrier brother, he would cough and pant if he over-exerted himself physically. Alongside all of these trademarks, he was the sweetest and the funniest. He would follow me around where ever I went, and he insisted that he sleep in the same bed as me even though I had to lift him up to get onto the bed, and he snored louder than any human I ever met (you know, lung condition and all.) He would stand outside the door while I shoved a pillow over my ears, praying he would just go to sleep, and he was would bark and scratch and eventually, I am not kidding- find a way to open the door, as it didn’t have locks. At that point, I figured all this effort to be with me shouldn’t be ignored, and I would resignedly help him into the bed where we would together share the night’s sleep - him soundly, me... not so much.

Eddie’s health had started to decline quite quickly. Whereas my last stay, he could walk up and down the stairs, now we only stayed on the first floor. And this time, he didn’t insist on jumping into bed with me... and outside adventures were limited to 30 second ins and outs, where he would walk out laboriously to use the bathroom, and then come straight back. I remembered Eddie being the dog who loved being outside for lengths at a time to lay in the sun and feel its warmth on his fur. No longer it seemed.

His parents told me they didn’t know what was wrong with him, all the tests came back inconclusive, and there was nothing to be done but care for and love him well, until his end. They were certain that though he wasn’t as lively as before, he was stable. And he seemed so. The first five days were normal, they were a little different, because he was different - some of the light had faded from him, but he was still with us. He could still walk, and eat, and breathe.



I remember when I knew something was wrong. Eric was visiting, and we were talking in the kitchen when Eddie found his way to where we were. He sounded strange - like his lungs were raking the air around him... like no matter how much they searched, they couldn’t find enough breath to fill them. I was mildly worried - I hadn’t heard this sound, like he was breathing through marbles, before. I sent a few texts to his parents- but I knew it was hopeless, they were on a cruise beyond service. But I also thought it would pass, and his lungs would clear. I stayed up half the night with him, praying and hoping he would get better. And by the next morning, he had. And it was a wonderful day.

By then by that next evening, out of nowhere, the raking breaths had returned. And he sounded like his lungs were filled with water. Each breath sounded like he breathing through gurgling water. It was past his home vet’s hours, so I called an emergency vet, and they confirmed my worst fears. “It sure does sound like fluid is building up in the lungs. Unfortunately, we can’t do anything unless you can prove that his owners want to pay for the procedures. We can’t confirm his condition without doing several tests (costing anywhere from $300-500), and then any procedures themselves (costing $300-500), and also there is the consultation fee just to meet with the vet ($80). So, Miss, you can either pay for it all yourself, or provide proof the owners consent to this care and the payment for it. I suggest you try to get them on the phone.”

It’s 2am. They are somewhere in the middle of the ocean. I couldn’t get a hold of them if I tried. And I didn’t even have $100 to spare to pay for his emergency medical care.

This place of utter hopelessness was haunting. No one was awake, I had no idea what his parents wanted to do - and he was dying, slowly and painfully, in front of me. He couldn’t lay down anymore, not even to sleep, because there was too much fluid in his chest. He could only sit up, and his stretch out his neck, begging for breath through gurgles of fluid. I finally found a number for the owner’s dad, and frantically texted him at 2:30am. By a miracle, he told me he woke up a little before. He told me that it was probably best to put Eddie down, but to try to wait for his family to come home. But they didn’t come home for another 48 hours. I remember praying to God to have mercy on him, and to heal him, and to keep him alive for his family to say goodbye.

It was around 3am, he led me outside. There had been bad weather all week. It had rained non-stop all day long. You could feel the water still on the grass. He went out into the yard, and sat down. I came and sat down next to him. I rubbed his head, knowing somehow that the time was coming. He was lingering. His eyes looking up toward the heavens - What do you know? It rained all day for the past week... but right now, in the moment, there was a clear sky. Eddie could see every star, and the stars could see him. Perhaps the clouds had peeled back for the first time in days for him to have this moment, right now. His last gaze upon the earth that had been his home, cradling his body and spirit-- his life. I sat with him, tears rolling down my face. We all come back to the dust and dirt that first formed us, don’t we?

We stayed up the rest of the night, I was holding him the best I could. Telling him it was okay. Listening to his gurgling breaths get worse and worse. I tried my hardest to stay awake, but somewhere after 5am, I drifted off to sleep, to wake up delirious on the couch four hours later.

Now, Eddie was lying down. A pool of blood had formed around his head. Blood was everywhere. He had trailed from the kitchen across the living room to where he lay in front of the bathroom. I remember how quickly I dialed the number of that granddad I had texted he night before - as I spoke with him, Eddie tried to stand up... he stumbled and fell. “Lie down, buddy. I’ll figure this out,” I whisper as he finally answers the phone.

“He needs to go to the vet right now to end his suffering. He can’t make it until tomorrow.”





After hanging up the phone, I was pulling up the directions to his vet when he stumbled toward me from the other room. Giant globs of bloody saliva where trailing from his mouth. He sat down in front of me, looked at me, and let out a long wail. He then fell. His heavy body thumped against the hardwood floor. He gasped for air... once... twice....... His eyes were open when he died. His eyes were looking at me.

I remember his Boston Terrier brother, who was blind and deaf, walked over to me when it happened. Even though he couldn’t see, he seemed to be looking over to where the lifeless body of his brother lay. His head was hung low. He appeared to have a solemn awareness of what had happened, like he was mourning a fallen comrade. He sat by me quietly, as I wept. All in all, he died within five minutes of me waking up. He had waited for me.

Death is such a strange thing. And I feel I have seen enough of it to never want it near me again, yet how futile that desire is. I was there as life left a body. One second his eyes were dancing, the next, they were still as glass. One moment, he had thoughts and feelings, longings and pain, the next, whatever he was beyond his body was no where to be found. There was only a shell that remained. Be it shorter than my own, he had lived a lifetime - loved deeply by a family that rescued him. A pup who snored so loud I couldn’t sleep, but refused to let me sleep alone. A dog who loved nothing more than a spoonful of peanut butter. A dog who loved to feel his fur warm up in the summer sun. All these moments, all these pieces... these... seconds that make up a life - culminate in a final, quiet, lingering breath.

How sacred it is, how sacred to witness that door, invisible to the naked eye, that opens for one milli-second, just one miraculous moment - to invite a soul from one phase of light into another.


I wrote about this experience because it has fundamentally changed me in some way. I know for many, this is just an animal dying. It shouldn’t be that big of deal. I wish it were that easy. My family has owned many pets over my lifetime, and I have said goodbye to several of them. It is not the loss that is sticking to my bones - it was the haunting feeling of hopelessness while I watched him slowly suffer to death, drowning in his own fluids. It is the question of, could I have done more? Oh, that I could turn back the clock, and call everyone I knew - beg my dad to help me pay for his medical bills...  put it on my credit card... something.... What if I had recognized the signs sooner? What if I had tried harder to press the dad into dealing with it now? What if I hadn’t fallen asleep when he needed me most? What if I had tried harder to find ways to ease his suffered.

So many questions, so many regrets. So many sleepless nights since then. So many glasses of wine. So many nightmares.

It’s been a week and a half since it happened. And I am just as traumatized by how it all ended now as I was then. And I feel so tired, and my soul so heavy. I realized yesterday that I can’t run away from this experience - expecting the trauma to stay behind where I left it. Trauma, unfortunately, latches onto you and it doesn’t let go that easily. I know this story is gruesome... it’s messy, and bloody, quite literally. But it is a part of me now, it’s a part of what is forming me more into the shape of who I am becoming. It has nestled itself inside, and it gives me more perspective on just how dissonant Death really is. Death is the darkest evil of the brokenness we experience -- we were never meant for it. No, we were made by God - we were made for Life. But we live in the in between now - we are dust motes caught in a ray light, existing between shadows. We are not where we were meant to be. We are all waiting for the suffering, the darkness... the Death... to end. How do we exist in the in-between, holding all the things that have scarred us?

Being the "Fat-Girl" then the "Fit-Girl" then the "Fat-Girl" and other cliche things...

It’s been over a year since I have written anything on this outlet, and I certainly didn’t think my grand entrance back into the blog writing world would concern what I am going to write about today. Hey, life is full of surprises.

I know this is cliche - classic, a girl talking about body image issues and weight and beauty. But let’s just add another one to the mix, shall we? What could it hurt?

This is hard and embarrassing to write, but here it goes.

I remember comparing my wrist size to other girls in elementary school and thinking: Why are my wrists so much bigger? Why are my legs stockier, more muscular? Why is my nose not petite, why are my lips so puffy? Why am I different?

When my body began the tumultuous changes of puberty and adolescence, I found things were changing in ways that I wasn’t very happy with. What was already big, became bigger. My metabolism changed, and all of the sudden I was putting on weight where I didn’t have weight before. While other girls were blossoming into walking goddesses, with perfect bodies, faces and hair - I was walking around completely ashamed and disgusted with how I looked, I covered myself in frumpy clothing and completely rejected my feminine identity.

I didn’t think I was a woman. I didn’t think I deserved to be one. Women were small. Dainty. They were flitty - with tiny wrists and delicate thighs and little noses that balanced a perfectly measured jawline. I was too muscular, too heavy, and too ugly to be a woman, and so I stopped thinking of myself as one. I knew myself as Emmie, and my identity began and ended there. I was some formless, genderless creature with a pretty good personality and a few talents.

I never dated in high school and a lot of college. I had plenty of crushes, I had desires to be with men and to have relationships. I was often the girl boys would come to to talk about girls they were interested in and how to win them over. I’d give them advice and walk with them every step of the way, praying to one day be the object of such intense affection. I would watch boys chase after girls with longing: knowing full well and accepting that because I was overweight, because I wasn’t traditionally pretty, because I didn’t shine brightly in my femininity - I didn’t deserve the same attention. Up until I had my first boyfriend at age 20, I never thought it was possible for a man to find me attractive and worthy of love -- and even then, I didn’t believe him. And I stayed with him much longer than I should have because I literally thought he was the only man on this earth who would ever love me as a woman who was overweight.

Living as a fat girl meant that I was always acutely aware of my weight everywhere I went. I would avoid going shopping with my friends because it was embarrassing to watch them fit into all the cute clothes and nothing would fit me. I would always know if I was the fattest person in the room at parties or hangouts, and I would feel better if there was someone else who was my weight or heavier. I would hold my head high when people would make fun of me or tell me they only wanted “skinny” girls and then I would go home and cry for hours. My weight never left my mind - it was always there, defining me, stripping me of dignity and of my femininity and my joy in life and in myself.

I just accepted this was my reality - this is was my destiny.



It took me years to realize why I felt this way. Society (even Christian society, I would argue especially Christian society) subtly and also not so subtly tells women that the most important thing we can offer to the world is our beauty. The thing that defines us, sets us apart, makes us worthy... is our beauty. Our bodies. Our hair. Our faces. Our lips. Our curves.

And beauty is especially beautiful when it is small, delicate, fragile - when it doesn’t take up space. When it doesn’t have stretch marks, when it’s hair isn’t frizzy, when it’s tummy is perfectly flat and it’s breasts are perky and proportioned perfectly.

So what happens when you aren’t beautiful AND you’re a woman?

This has been my life for practically my whole life. But a few years ago, I finally decided I was going to change everything and redefine how the world saw me, and within a year I had lost 70lbs. For the first time in my life, people were saying I was beautiful - that my body was beautiful! I could fit into clothes my friends were wearing. Men finally took notice of me. People told me I inspired them. My mom said I looked like a Barbie doll.

To the world, I was making it. I was fitting into the mold they wanted me to fit into. I was sexually appealing and not just a frumpy, best friend. I was one of the girls. I was noticed, I was approached, I was seen as desirable. People wanted to be like me, people praised me for my self-control and my hard work. People followed my Instagram.

What people don’t realize is, it was never enough. It started off healthy and with good intentions, but it eventually became a consuming obsession that furthered my belief that I was not worthy. Even at a healthy BMI, the fat girl lurked in my head and my heart and told me it wasn’t good enough. I still had cellulite, fat arms, a round stomach - I needed to do more. I needed to lose more. I needed to be a wisp in order to be a woman.

What people don’t realize is, a year ago, I was lucky if I ate one meal a day. I would wake up in the morning and weigh myself, and if I didn’t lose weight, I would refuse to eat the whole day and just drink coffee and juice. If I ate something bad or drank something bad, I would punish myself and not eat at all the next day and then force myself to walk seven miles with a long sleeved shirt on.

What people don’t realize is, I would walk and walk and run and run and bike and bike and lift and lift, and I wouldn’t feel satisfied in myself unless my entire body was sore and depleted of energy, and I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep unless my stomach was grumbling out of hunger.

What people don't realize is, I would become so hungry that I would binge eat alone in my room and then I would be so full I would throw up. I spend the next week in shame, not eating, until the vicious cycle started all over again.

I was the smallest I’ve ever been, and I was so unhappy, so depressed, so CONSUMED with how I looked and what I ate, so obsessed with getting smaller - that I was wasting away body and soul .

But hey, at least I was finally healthy.
At least I was finally beautiful to the world.

I remember this day - I didn't eat anything all day and then went to salsa class and felt like I was going to pass out.

All of you have probably noticed that this past year I have gained nearly half of what I lost back. Yeah, it's been a tough year... my ministry work fell completely apart, I had a terrible, terrible reoccurrence of crippling depression and severe anxiety that made me want to sleep my life away, I was sick over and over. But I was also dating a boy who liked me as I was and I allowed myself to FINALLY AFTER TWO YEARS eat BREAD and ICE CREAM and NOODLES!! Oh my goodness I hadn't allowed myself to eat food like that for years! I was falling in love and happy to drink bubble tea (even though the sugar count is ridiculously high) with a man that wasn't going to base his love for me on how small my waist was. And pretty quickly, the weight crept back on.

It has been hard bearing people's comments, their worries about my weight gain, or realizing that I know what they are thinking: "She let herself go." But I got to say, in the midst of this past year, I have felt deliriously happy and devastatingly broken, but I haven't felt obsessed with how I looked. I just had too much happening, too much going on, too much at stake.... and while yes, I did push my health to the back burner, I also think this year saved me from something that would have been far more unhealthy and deadly that gaining some weight back. I was 100% on the verge of having an eating disorder, and my spiritual life was wrapped up and consumed with a false lie about where my worth was found.

Gaining weight back has forced me to come face to face with the very question of my worth and my value and my identity. Am I somehow less worthy now that I've gained back twenty pounds? Has my value diminished as the number on the scale rises? In a world that says I don't deserve to be desired or seen as a woman or pursued or loved for who I am - for being unideal in both my beauty and my weight, I know that I have to be brave enough to look it in the face and say: "Hell no. You are damn a liar. I refuse to listen to your poison." Even when everything else is screaming otherwise.

What's harder is looking into my heart and soul, which has been twisted to believe these lies for so so so so so long.. and speak with the same loving kindness that the Creator that formed my being speaks into me- sometimes, only a whisper: "Emmie, baby girl. You are so much more than what you look like. You are so much more than your weight. Your flesh will fail, it will grow old and wither away, but when I look into your soul, I know it will sustain, it will not fade away. It only grows stronger, more beautiful, with every day and with every trial and with every victory. Your worth is found in Me alone. And when I look at you, I DO see a woman. A woman whose strength, passion, fire and resilience means more than her pant size every could."



How do you deal with losing weight and gaining weight as a woman in a society that says it is all that matters?

You tell society to shut the hell up.

You remember what is true. You fight like hell to find balance, to heal your inner wounds, to develop a healthy relationship with food, exercise, and your body image. You win, you fail, you win, you fail and in every moment, in every breath, you are LOVED. You celebrate a body that has been fashioned and made WELL. You talk to your body and your self like you talk to your lover. You pray and you pray and you pray. You come against the lies of the darkness and the world, and you refuse to bow down to them. You fall and you get up again. And you climb to the top and look down and refuse to go back to where you were, but sometimes you do, and that is okay. You can always walk back up again.

I know more about God and about myself and his love and my love on this side of the journey. And I know that as life moves on, as I grow more and more into myself, it will continue to be filled with struggles. That's life. But isn't beautiful that the struggles birth beauty more sustaining than what the world claims is beautiful?

Today, as I seek to live a healthy and balanced life, that is what I cling to.

Not wasting away.
Not being beautiful in the eyes of the world.
Not becoming an "ideal woman."
Not reducing myself.

But resting in all that is me, all that is beautiful, and how loved I truly am.

Dear White People, Part I:

Dear White People;

How I love you.
Oh, how I love you.

You were the bodies that brought me into being, you were the hands that cradled my head when I was sick. You were the teachers that taught me the magical and wonderful things of the world.  You were the friends that played with me on the playground, the first boys I fell in love with. You were the patient and kind voices that taught me what was right from wrong, that supported and uplifted me all the days of my life.

I am thankful to come from you, and I am thankful to be you. I am neither ashamed of who I am nor would I wish myself any other way. I was brought forth into life as a white woman by the will of God, and even though we have a marred and twisted history, and even though we struggle now, his remarkable image is also branded into who we are a people, and we are loved by him.

So I begin this:
Dear White People, I love you. 

That being said, that being the banner over which I write this - I ask that together we approach this letter I am writing with our arms laid down. I know that recently, I have posted some things on my various forms of social media that have seemed really harsh and angry toward you as a people, and I suppose they were. I know many of you have voiced that you disagree with my opinions, my decisions to participate in the Black Lives Matter movement, and that you fear I have fallen victim to the ‘liberal’ agenda, that I have betrayed my own, and while I understand why you would think these things, because I am you, and I know how we think, I would invite you to please give me the benefit of the doubt and hear me out.

I would like to tell you the story of how I got here. 

I, like many of you, am a Christian. I have heard the mysterious and miraculous Story, for it was you that told it to me, and my soul could do nothing else but give itself completely to my God. As many of you know, much of my journey toward Jesus began in college. I grew up in north Georgia, a beautiful little town that was my home for nearly 20 years of my life. I grew up without much access to cultural or racial diversity and honestly, I never questioned it. All my friends were white, all my teachers were white, all the people in my life were mostly white. Those that may remember me from that time may recall I had a fascination with culture, with people that lived and looked differently from me. This curiosity was a big propellor in pushing me toward a school called Georgia State University in the heart of downtown Atlanta; itself being the most diverse campus in the southeast. 

You may also remember that I quickly became swept up in a campus ministry called InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. It was within this community of roughly 40 students that my knowledge and pursuit of Jesus began to flourish in new ways. This was shaped very much by the fact that our community was a diverse one with 40% of the student demographic consisting of white students, 40% black students, and 20% Asian/Asian American students. The plethora of perspective and experience from my brothers and sisters of different racial and cultural background not only enhanced my faith, but it also challenged it. It was wonderful having friends of color for the first time in my life, it truly brought a new level of depth and meaning to my life.

But do you know what? My presence in the community was not always a positive one. I hate to admit this so widely, to confess it even, but I said and did things toward my new friends of color that not only annoyed, frustrated and isolated them, it also deeply hurt them. I grew up in white suburbia - all that I knew of black folk and Asian American folk came from hyper-stereotyped movies and television shows. I simply assumed these simplified and untrue stereotypes were true of them, and often vocally said so. Not to mention, I made insensitive jokes toward them and off hand remarks, and I hate to say, I even said truly hurtful things toward my friends that not only devalued and diminished their experience, but communicated to them that I thought I was better than them.

The truth? I did think I was better them. 

Oh, it hurts like hell to type that. I am so ashamed.

I don’t think I realized at the time that I felt that way - it was almost a subconscious reality that I hadn’t yet become aware of, and still it had sunk into my conscious thought and action. All my life I was told I could do anything I wanted - I mean I looked around and the world seemed to prove this to me. All the respected leaders and celebrities and scientists and authors I read and all the characters in my books and television shows were white and looked like me, and I believed white people were the smartest and most successful in the world because we had worked the hardest. As a white woman, I was plastered all over the magazines and in all the beauty tutorials, and my hair and makeup products took over the cosmetic section of the store, and I believed white beauty was the epitome of beauty, because the whole world seemed to believe it. I never once questioned if the police pulled me over that my white face would threaten them, or make them think untrue things about me, or that it would affect them at all - I would just bat my eyelashes, maybe tear up, and get let off with a warning. I never thought someone would be suspicious of me if I shopped in their store, I just assumed they would treat me with respect, not follow me around with an untrustworthy look in their eye, but instead go out of their way to help me find what I needed.

All these things are the symptoms and reality of white privilege. Now I know that word scares the hell out of most of you or makes you angry. I know you hear those words and think that they are just an excuse for people of color to blame white people for their misfortunes in the world. I know you hear those words and remember how you worked harder than anyone you know to get to where you are and that it isn’t fair of people of color to use those words to diminish your hard work by blaming your race for your success. I know what you are thinking. But bear with me here.

I didn’t know what white privilege was at the time, but it was impacting every interaction I had with my new friends of color. And every little thing I said, every little action I did that snubbed them or devalued them, every time I ignored, stereotyped or overlooked their experience, and every time I silenced them, chipped away more and more at the fabric of our community. I wasn't doing this intentionally or out of malice - I wasn't trying to hurt them... but the reality is, it is not always our intentions, but it is what we say and do that has the lasting impact on others, whether for good or bad. I remember one time joking on at a small group meeting with some other students about how my extended family would be shocked and disappointed if I married a black man, and one of the black students, a friend, at the table turned away and started crying, and I didn’t notice, and I just kept going making jokes. Afterwards, my staff worker with InterVarsity, Nick, a white man, took me aside.

“Emmie, I want to invite you to think about the impact your words and your jokes may be having on the black members of our community,” he said.

Naturally I was livid. How dare he bring race into this? She knew it was a joke! She needs to stop being so sensitive. It's not like racism is even a thing anymore! Everyone knows it ended with the Civil Rights Movement!

Of course, I didn't realize at the time the impact of my words. I didn't recognize the trauma of racism, micro-aggression, and white supremacy that my friend had lived with since the day she was born. I didn't understand that in joking about how my family wouldn't like me to marry a black man, I was reinforcing the narrative that black men are scary, threatening, and 'less than.' And I didn't realize, I didn't recognize, I didn't understand because even while harboring racist and prejudiced thoughts myself, I continued to buy into the 'colorblind theology.' I didn't know because I didn't care to know. I didn't 'see' race; therefore, I invalidated her experience and refused to acknowledge that even with all our good 'colorblind' intentions, we as a white society still treat non-white peoples as 'others' that are to be feared and categorized and misunderstood.

All that to say, I remember how defensive and angry I was that he would even have this conversation with me when it was her he needed to talk to. But as I talked it over with Nick, he graciously began bringing up other things that I had said and done that had hurt other people of color in the community. As I was listening to him explain, as I heard the stories of their pain at my expense, something inside of me shifted. It had happened more than once, more than one of my friends were hurt by some of the things I had said. My friends were hurt. People I knew and loved. Maybe what I saying was actually hurtful. And Nick loved me enough and loved our community enough to have the hard conversation with me, not to call me out or to tear me down, but to build me up, to grow me more into the likeness of Christ, and to challenge me to see things from a perspective I was not accustomed to (which frankly, we as a people should learn to do better) in order to bring deeper friendship and healing with my new friends of color.

Now here is where I call on the goodness of God. Because this is what happened:

I didn't trust what Nick was saying, and I didn't even see the validity of it entirely, and I certainly didn't understand why it was hurting others. But what I did know is that I was told by someone I respected and admired that, while I was deeply loved by him and the community, I had said and done things that had caused people to feel hurt and isolated, even if I didn't mean them to, and because I loved them, because I loved this community, and because I loved Jesus and wanted to be more like him: I agreed to do what needed to be done to reconcile with them. 

At the time, I had no idea where that would take me. I had no idea what reconciliation would really mean.

I had no idea that in that moment of openness toward what God may have for me, even though I didn't fully agree with it, that I welcomed a work of God that would bring me here to this moment. I had no idea that it would change my life forever.

--

'Part Two' in next piece 

Lessons from Fish

If you follow me on Instagram, you might have seen that I caught eight fish tonight.

This may not seem like a big deal, but you should know... I grew up on a lake in the south and fishing is practically a way of life, and I have gone 25 years of my life without ever having caught a fish the traditional way on my own. 25 years.

But tonight, I caught eight. All by myself. In fact, I was the only one to catch any fish at all tonight. They latched onto my hook again and again, and I reeled them up excitedly, becoming braver with each new fish I managed snag from the water.

I was amazed, because of all the times I have gone fishing, I have wondered why I have never caught anything. Not even once. I would always leave disappointed. And all of sudden, out of nowhere, I caught eight and actually had closer to 12 interact with my line and hook.

The scene had me thinking of the man Jesus, asking the man Peter to let out his nets for a catch even though his nets had already been out all night, and he hadn't caught anything. By obeying the command of Christ, the nets that Peter had let out were so full to bursting that his ship was beginning to sink. That is probably more than eight fish I think, but to me, the miracle felt tangible and so relatable to me... 25 years and I haven't caught a thing, and now I am bringing in more fish than my tiny ice chest can hold.

When I got back and told my dad about the catch of fish, he was elated. I asked him his thoughts on why all of sudden I had caught so many fish, and you know what he said? He told me it probably had to do with the fact that it has recently rained and was slightly cloudy.

And there it was. A simple lesson from my loving God and Father that watches and tends my soul:

Sometimes the plentiful harvest comes after a season of toil.
Sometimes the deepest rest finds us after long lengths of weariness.
Sometimes remarkable joy becomes us after we have sowed in tears.
Sometimes the most incredible victory is ours after we have struggled to overcome.

Sometimes the greatest catches of our lives come after the rain. 

a song from beneath the trees

All beautiful and wonderful things exist to remind us our Belovedness.

I embrace the feeling of the blazing sunlight coaxing beads of sweat from my sticky skin. Gazing up, there isn’t even a tiny wisp of cloud in the sky. It is a piercing, limitless blue - if it weren’t for the tall oaks and sycamores surrounding me, I think I would be swallowed up by the formless sky, overwhelmed by the consuming atmosphere that has kept us alive for thousands of years. Every few moments, an unlikely breeze would cause the hairs on my head to whip and twirl and curl into each other, tickling my face and eyes. The Voice on the wind comes to me in those moments - just a still and quiet whisper barely stirring the surface of the waters.

“Beloved.”

All around me
overwhelming blue, a sky held up by trillions of dancing molecules, casting light and stars as a backdrop for all of creation
ancient trees swaying and tossing their branches, their leaves drinking up the sun and recycling the very air we expel, returning to us the air we must consume
a mountain lake, brimming with life - dazzling sunlight bouncing off it’s surface, a mirror that reflects back to the beholder all the beauty of the earth

And there, among it all, stand I: a privileged witness.
Marvelously alone,
invited to stand with my eyes open and say nothing,
drawn in to stand with my hands open and touch nothing.
Majesty and mystery that abide for No One.
There is no applause, and it doesn’t even ask for one.
There is no acclaim, and it doesn’t even require it.
It exists because it can do nothing else,
it is beautiful because it can be nothing else,
and it does not require my eyes, my applause, or my acclaim
for it to be Known.

And yet, in the miraculous, overcoming beauty of all that is here:
the old, friendly trees with toiling green leaves and interwining branches
lakes and waters, growing deep; their mystery unfathomable
mountains stretching high, hands reaching out to curl around the sun
and yes, even the sky, the cradle of Light itself

even here in this delicate, passing moment where time and space collide,
the most wonderful thing of all
there is still a Voice, ever whispering in a language only I can understand:

“I see and know and crafted every inch of this, but you, my darling, you are my Beloved.” 

Belonging to Each Other

Orange roses... one of my favorite colors. I gaze at their soft petals blooming toward the Spring sun. And there is my favorite iced coffee, sweating slowly, waiting for me to consume it. The most wonderful of these gifts, however, is her. My best friend. On a day where I feel overwhelmed and stricken down by life and its disappointments, she comes rushing in bearing coffee and flowers and embraces me in a knowing way, completely aware of how traumatized and overcome I feel, so desperate to make it better. What she could never know, is that even in that one act of sacrifical kindness, she revealed even more of God's goodness and love for me.

These are the moments that breathe meaning and beauty into the miraculous gift that is every day of our rather short lives. 

When I read about the tender power of God as he intricately, gently, and wonderfully crafted man from the very dust of the earth - I am moved by the staggering intimacy that the very breath of our loving Creator was the air that filled our lungs and caused our body to pulse with life and being. And yet, despite the remarkable work of bringing forth what was once not, the story has not reached it’s climax. The Divine Craftsman looked upon the child of Earth, the miraculous existence that was a fragile reflection of his own Majesty, and his words were: “It is not good for him to be alone.” In a place where all things under the sun and of the sun were good and perfect and right, there was in Adam’s loneliness, one not good thing. And the Merciful Righter-of-Wrongs gave relationship to man, and the unsurpassable gifts of Union, Love and Friendship, came bursting forth into our reality.


At the very core of God is relationship. He exists in Three, each vivid manifestation of his goodness dancing in perfect Love with the other - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God, in all that he is, is not alone, and we, bearers of his divine image, are not created to be alone. Humans are, in fact, made for each other.

Though our tendency as humans is often to crumble into ourselves, to isolate and consume our energy and time with self-absorbed thoughts and selfish ambition, and to protect ourselves from rejection, misunderstanding and the other pains that humans will inevitably inflict on one another, it is not how we were created to live.

We were created for each other. 

This is what I think when my friend brings me flowers on a day when I feel sad. Or when she extends forgiveness over a bowl of hot tofu soup after I have done something that truly hurt her. I revel in this truth when I get a text from my friend from far away, offering encouragement and honesty and solidarity in the struggle of being a single woman when all your friends are falling in love and getting married. It is the reality when my roommate sits on my bed as she covers me in a merciful embrace, and cries with me as I confess my shortcomings and pain and longings, and helps me come to the Father to receive grace and strength to face the crippling reality of life. It is found in the nights we spend getting dressed up to dance into the early morning hours, seeping in the vivid and blazing expectation of all that lies before us. It is grabbing coffee with my mentor and hearing him speak words that empower and equip me to do all that I can and be all that I was created to be. I am reminded of it every time I play with the baby, his smile stretching wide across his face as he plants a wet kiss on my cheek. I feel it when I spend hours discussing the ethereal beauty of words and stories  and dreaming up new ones with my best friend, and the joy of knowing that despite the distance between us, when we see each other again, it will feel like no time has passed. It is standing next to her on her wedding day and witnessing the greatest decision of Love she will make. It can even be found in the coy, lingering glances across the room and the burning heat of falling for someone, the excitement of what could come- the dazzling electricity of a kiss. It is hearing the deep pain of my friend as he opens up about the trauma he has experienced just being who he is, and it is realizing what a privilege it is to listen and to know.

And we belong to one another.

We are messy people. We hurt each other and harbor distrust and betray one another. The world is wrought with our relational brokenness in so many ways, and we so easily forget we were made for each other. We so easily forget that despite our differences, we are all fragile reflections and bearers of the image of our Relational God, forever alive and in Love with each part of what he is. We so easily forget that though it feels safer to protect our souls by tucking into ourselves, it is not good for Us to be alone. And it never was.

This is the gift and the miracle of our existence: that we are trusted and loved and hurt and healed and understood and empowered and forgiven and advocated for and broken and enjoyed and truly, deeply known by each other. That by some mysterious reality, we belong to one another, and when we truly live with each other and for each other, we touch the Divine.

When we are together, we become what we were created to be. When we are together, we reflect more completely the image of our Father.

We become his hands as we wipe the tears of our friend away. We become his warm laughter when we celebrate and enjoy all the unique beauty radiating from each other. We become his goodness when we surprise our friends with flowers and coffee, and his kindness when we tell each other it is going to be alright. We become his unwavering love when we say we won't leave when things get hard, and we actually mean it. We become his grace when we forgive each other, even when they may have hurt us really deeply. We become his guidance when we walk with our friends through difficulty and painful times. We become his light when we help heal and soothe the wounds that afflict us and remind each other of what is actually true. We become his ears when we listen. We become his advocacy when we protect and defend and stand up for one another when someone is denied justice. It truly is a miracle.

What a gift, that God would give us each other.

Seven Years

I have been following Jesus for seven years now.

Seven wonderful, painful, thrilling, joyous, and difficult years. Deciding to answer ‘yes’ to the call meant taking up a cross of suffering in one hand and the crown of daughterhood in the other.

It meant becoming exposed and naked, the grimmest corners of my soul no longer in hiding. It meant walking to the furious light of God where every warm ray burned away what was once trying to destroy me.

It meant making mistakes that affected not just me, but those I love. It meant receiving deep, true, healing forgiveness from others even when the scars I inflicted on them are still fresh.

It meant wrestling through the darkness of my past and the ways it has dimmed the truth of God’s goodness. It meant finding him in those places I feared most to go and discovering his wondrous love waiting for me.

It meant jumping head first into risky situations and getting my ass kicked by the reality of life. It meant finding success and victory just in obedience, not in the outcome of my efforts.

It meant surrendering every bit of myself, all of my hopes and dreams and desires in this life to One I Could Not See, But Knew. It meant having a life more beautiful, adventurous and wonderful than I could have imagined.

It meant sleepless nights, endless tears, and a depth of pain I could not have foreseen or believed I could survive. It meant waking up with the morning light pouring in, and by some miracle, finding remarkable Joy oozing through my pores.

I would not have known the radiating beauty and joy of life, if it were not for the pain. 

I am older now. Seven years has started to etch itself onto my face. I have been familiar with pain and with joy and with brokenness and with wholeness and with hope and with disappointment. I have come through enough with Jesus to say with complete trust that all things work together for the good of those who love and follow him. Things that should have hardened my heart and destroyed the pieces of me throbbing with life have, in the end, held no power over me. In fact, those things were used to fertilize the soil from which even deeper, more miraculous life burst forth and began to bloom in vivid color.

I stand in the shadow of the Cross, and I can say with confidence: nothing can come against the inexplainable love that God has for me. No situation, no heartbreak, no mistake, and no failure... No one. No. Not even myself.

Following Jesus is not a promise for a happy life. It is a promise for abundant life. It is a beautiful, tragic mosaic of pain and sadness and suffering and tears and joy and wonder and hope and remarkable, unwavering Love.

I am older now. Seven years of following my King have gone by. And I rest. I rest in the unshakable love of God. I may change, I move and shift and rock with the waves of my life and my soul, but Jesus stands for me... a Solid Rock of steadfast, immovable love and peace. After all that I have done and continue to do, his grace has never once failed me. What love is this? What Love is this that reaches out again and again, that waits at His door to see my form walking home again and again? What Love is this that doesn't even ask me to explain why I left in the first place, before ushering me back into His home? Back into His arms?

Maybe it is just coming with getting older, and maybe it is going through some of life’s unavoidable difficulty - but for the first time in my life, I stand with complete abandon to the will of God and whisper to him, “You are no longer some abstract void in my consciousness. You are my Friend. I know You, and I know Your love. Though death may face me and life may rip at me and reality may try to crush me - I fear not. For You have always been with me. And You will never leave.”

I feel peace the world does not give. Because I have nothing to fear. I have been brought through enough to be able to point to the Cross and know that because of this, there is nothing that can destroy me. There is nothing that can determine who I am or my value or my worth apart from the One for whom I was made and made in His likeness at that. There is no weapon of man or powers at be that can come against me - for I am my Father's girl. I am Beloved by the Lover himself. For no reason I can give, for nothing that I can offer, for no word that I can say - except that Love can do nothing and be nothing, but Love. Hallelujah.

I sit with Him as the turmoil and difficult of life swirl around me, and I fall asleep in His arms. I rest. I follow Jesus, and I am His daughter, and I rest in His unwavering love.

Amen.

At the end of all things, Love will always remain. 

Terrible, Wonderful: What It Means to Be Human

If we were to line up all of the humans of the world, every human that exists now and every human that came before us and every human that will burst forth into existence after our demise, we would be in that line somewhere. 

Isn't that a belittling thought? We would be in that line somewhere. You... I... people with brilliant, vividly colored lives full of meaning and struggle and difficulty and joy and minute-by-minute experiences of life and what it means to exist... yeah, we would just be one other person standing inconspicuously and unimportantly in that line. We would be just one other story, one other life narrative of birth, breath, and death. Isn't that on one hand incredibly sobering and yet remarkably freeing, almost even... wonderful?

I know it is our tendency to be ego-centric, it makes sense psychologically as we are consciousness running a body and creating a life... we need to be self-obsessed to survive. But isn't it somewhat beautiful to know that there is nothing we are experiencing, nothing that is happening to us or nothing we are doing that hasn't been done before or experienced before? Our society is filled with messages like: "You are worth it, you deserve it. You have something incredible to do, go do it. You can be anything you dream of. Your truth is all that matters, find your truth. Discover yourself." etc. Our society is obsessed with significance. It is obsessed with this idea that everything we need comes from within, from ourselves. It is obsessed with glorifying human attempts at understanding and piecing together what it true about our world and our existence because those are, after all, the only true things (because our self-invented ways of understanding the world are the only things that can prove it, by the way.)

Everything is always about us. And we are sung to sleep by lullabies that spin tales that we must live the life we want to live, do the things we want to do, be the person we want to be, and never let anyone or anything stand in our way. It's no wonder that so many of us in the self-actualized, developed world struggle with crippling anxiety and depression and dissatisfaction with our lives... we have conflated our significance to the point where we can't handle the alternative: We are not the center of reality. And things will hardly pan out with our 'truth.' We won't all be remembered. Our lives will not always look the way we dreamed they would. And even though it feels like a requirement, we don't have to be significant to make an impact on the world. 

We will always have some disappointment, someone will always be better or prettier or smarter or more successful, we will miss out and lose opportunities, we will not get the internship or the job, and we will be left or abandoned or mistreated by someone we love and isn't it a little bit wonderful to know that the whole world isn't going to fall apart just because it feels like it might for us at that one moment? And isn't it amazing that someone, somewhere is going through the same thing and the world will, thankfully, still keep revolving?

This isn't said to diminish our experiences of pain, loss, emotional and mental suffering and disease or even our experiences of joy and victory and success. Because the incredible reality is, even though we are just another person on the great conga-line that is humanity - we are unique. We are each delightful and beautiful traces of God's marvelous image, together reflecting his infinite creativity and character. We are each deeply loved and by some miracle that I will forever be in awe of:

We are known. 

The Great Creator of All knows exactly how I like my bagels (gluten-free, Everything, toasted with cream cheese and smoked salmon) and he knows  every little difficulty in my life, every sweeping joy, every truly painful and catastrophic tragedy I experience and he knows the shows I binge-watch on Netflix, and he knows every embarrassing memory I have unfortunately stored away in full, excruciating detail, and my goodness, he even claims to know the number of hairs on my head which are constantly changing as I shed like a pure-bred Border Collie.

I tell you one thing, I have spent my life looking for someone out there that can look at me, you know... look at ME and truly know and understand the crazy, unique and cosmically-insignificant things, thoughts, aspects, feelings, experiences, and hopes that make me exactly who I am. I have come close in some people, but the reality is, there is no one who has been me; therefore, I am terribly alone in that regard, but I am not terribly lonely.

For I am known by One, and by One who made me at that. I am not lonely, for there are a couple of other humans on that Great Line that have found me and have decided to share in my little, somewhat insignificant experience of this beautiful and wonderful life on this little, somewhat insignificant planet. And even though we don't always understand each other, and we sometimes hurt each other, and we sometimes fail at loving each other - it is a miracle that of all the people that have lined up before, with and after us, we... we found each other. 

Maybe there is something in this... you know, to try and not sweat the small stuff. Because sometimes that is all it is, small stuff. Maybe it is to have grace for myself because nothing I do or don't do comes as a surprise God, and I am, after all, another precious babe in his arms, and he is a wonderful Father. And maybe it is also this:

The world wouldn't fall apart if I wasn't here. But, funny enough, in some small way, it wouldn't be there same world if I wasn't here either. 

And today I think that's enough for me.

But Will It Rain?

It's a lovely April day. The trees and foliage are alive with bursts of red and pink, their leaves a stark contrast of electric green against an uneasy sky. Is it going to rain? Heavy grey clouds move in a coordinated dance across a blue backdrop, a reminder that life can somehow contain the dark, grey and ugly even as it holds the beauty and clarity of an unbroken sky, sometimes in the same day.

Well, it's another coffee shop. Another big room filled with rickety tables and overpriced and over-roasted caffeinated beverages that somehow make me feel like I am satisfying the inexplicable thirst that never really goes away, though if I sip on an iced latte with just enough nuttiness, maybe I can forget about it for a moment. My faux-leather bound journal is next to me with it's creamy, slightly yellow pages just begging for me to drag black ink across it in a series of lines and curves that will miraculously communicate a message or personal sentiment when I add a period or a question mark at the end. I will fill a few pages with the ramblings of my inner world , and I will act like it is a new thing - a new experience, a new idea, a new thought, but it will really just be the same existential reality, dread, question, and demand just written a little differently and perhaps a little more haphazardly.

I will look around the room, gazing at unfamiliar faces that somehow feel familiar. A couple will look into each other's eyes like they have discovered the very piece that will complete the puzzle they have been putting together for the duration of their lives even though five years from now, they will sit at the same table arguing about money or who is going to pick up the kids when the new job comes through and completely forget that for one moment, long ago, they sat here basking in the wonder and awe of having felt understood and known, unafraid of what the future might hold. A man will type away at his laptop, checking his Apple Watch every few minutes for some email or message that will undoubtedly collapse his entire existence into disarray and chaos, though honestly, he secretly hopes and pines away for that exact moment, because somehow the horrible drama of it all will make him feel alive. A barista will tousle his hair in the shimmery reflection of espresso machine, because it is necessary for his hair to look disheveled and slightly undone, but only in a way that looks natural and unforced, which of course, requires extensive effort on his part.

And I will sit here. Looking out at the bustle of humans walking their children and their dogs and their spouses to some wonderful, mysterious destination that I will assume is better than the one I headed toward. Because after all, this is just a different version of the same day I have always lived - I may change slightly... become more or less cynical depending on the environmental circumstances, or I may have more money to spend on pricier coffee because I decided to budget that month, or I may be worried about some terrible meeting that most likely be far less drastic than I thought it would be... but it feels like the same story. Over and over.

But will it rain? I don't know. That is one thing I can't say for sure. It definitely looks like it just might, but honestly, it could go either way at this point.

When God Calls You a Dog

It’s been almost six months since I’ve written a blogpost, which is quite amazing to me. A “radio silence,” if you will. It may be amazing; however, it isn’t entirely shocking to me. Because wouldn’t you know, the very thing that Jesus has been really teaching me in this season is the remarkable beauty of silence.

Not just silence, but solitude. That mysterious paradox of aloneness without being lonely. The quietness that is tucked away within. He has been revealing the absolute delight of a solitary walk along the river or the magic to be found in an evening alone with a book. He has, without me even realizing it, turned my eyes inward to behold the endless adventure that awaited me there - the most steadfast companionship, the most enthralling conversations - because what do you know, at the center of being, it was Love Himself waiting for me.

For the past few months, I have taken on the discipline of solitude and silence at least once a day. It started off being only a few minutes, because if you know me, my greatest fear in life was being alone especially alone in silence. However, as the days wore on, I began to crave it more and more. I found that the more I listened, the more I quieted myself, the more I stepped into the still waters, the louder the voice of Him became to me. Oh, it’s been glorious friends! It’s been the greatest wonder of my life to find that in silence, I have heard so much! I have known my Beloved Jesus for years now, but not like this. I listen, and he speaks. Not always. But even when it remains quiet, there is a mysterious work that I can only describe as deepening happening.

Now I am not a pro at this. In fact, I am a the biggest newbie the Lord has probably ever known because I am pretty sure I started in the negatives (like, I was so afraid of silence and so dependent on other humans, I would sometimes have to listen to an audiobook in the car or when I was alone in my room so I could hear another human voice, kind of negatives.) But how patient and faithful he has been! So I decided it was time to jump from .04%-10% and do a retreat of silence for eight hours today. I figured I had practiced enough. I was ready! I mean I had done a five hour retreat of silence before when I was forced to at a training I went to. Granted, I coincidentally got a stomach virus and was throwing up and/or preparing to throw up and/or sleeping until it was time to throw up again the whole time.... so... did that... count? Or? Doesn’t matter. I’m doing it.

The Eight-Hour Retreat of Silence, otherwise known as: A Quick and Easy Guide to Prove Your Holiness. 

A Hobbit's Tale, by Emmie Lancaster. 


So, I went to my favorite coffee shop with a park attached to it, armed to the nines with books and journals and Lara Bars in case I grew weary (because the waiting on the Lord, it can get weary, am I right?) And it was a wonderful day of reflection. I spent a few minutes reading through my old journal, (an unfortunate mistake that caused me to break out in a cold sweat because could ya girl really be THAT whiny??) and I also marveled at the extent of God’s work in my life over the past year. I couldn’t believe that in so short a time, my love and dependence on Him had deepened so much. I couldn’t fathom how the issues I was wrestling through even seven months ago - I mean life-consuming issues - were like vapor to me now. Places of distrust that I had harbored against Jesus were replaced with childlike belief in him. How had this healing work been done so quickly? This maturing work? I knew that it had come through learning to be quiet. Learning to listen.

After some time reflecting, studying Scripture and walking around, enjoying nature -  I started reading a book on solitude. It was fantastic and rich and filled with all these amazing insights - and I was proud of myself because - look at me. I have been doing this stuff for months now! I am practically a pro at solitude and silence! Man, what are all these other Christians doing if they aren’t meditating on Christ like I am? In fact, I am so thirsty for righteousness, I am going to apply this chapter right now and spend the next hour completely silent without any books or journals or Bibles to guide me. I can’t wait to show the Lord how much he means to me.

Well. Here’s how that went: 

I sat there. It was chilly outside, and I shivered. I gazed out at the water. The geese were so loud. Stop honking! You’re messing up my inner quietness! Shoot, I thought about something other than God... okay, okay let me start over. Hmmmm. Yep. I'm feeling it. I'm really feeling it. Anndddd no actually this is terrible, I just thought about Adam Driver. Maybe I’ll repeat a verse in my head to focus myself again. Uh... what the heck, I am a campus minister and not a SINGLE verse is coming to mind? I need to start memorizing more Scripture. Maybe a sip of coffee will help me engage better. Caffeine saves. GAH that’s hot as the fires of hell, and it’s burning my chin! Anddddd my favorite sweater is stained... again... Okay. Let’s do this. It’s just me and you, Lord. Inner quietness. I got this. 

Me, right after trying to be silent.

And then I started crying. I mean... ugly crying. Like, I’m Anne Hathaway, and I just won an Oscar, thanks everyone for supporting me, kind of crying. At least, that is what I assumed the nice family in the bench next to mine was thinking of my emotional outburst. But #hatersgonnahate. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, why I so sad... As I was trying to make sense of it, I felt the presence of the Lord come. Perfect timing. I sensed him next to me and felt that tender whisper: “What is wrong, child? Why are you crying?”

And it finally came to me. I was crying, because like so many other things in my life, I couldn’t even do this right. I couldn’t be quiet. I couldn’t silence my mind or my heart. There were too many nuances, too many details that I couldn’t master. I was overwhelmed by how much I had to grow, how many miles to tread to reach the depths of my soul, how many days I had wasted with noise... I was afraid if I didn’t do it right, I was going to miss out on what the Lord wanted to share with me. I was afraid he wasn’t going to come - afraid that he wouldn’t speak. I wanted to be good at this - I wanted to do it right. My Love deserved that. And I wanted to make sure my heart was a welcoming place for him.

Crying, angry and frustrated, deeply saddened by humanness - I looked back up at the river. Immediately my eyes noticed movement on the other side; squinting, I saw that is was a beautiful chocolate Lab running gleefully along the river’s bank. I smiled. Her tail was wagging, her wet nose to the ground, taking in all the new, tantalizing scents. She was exploring everything with the excitement of one who was just now seeing a forest for the first time.

“That’s you, Emmie.” 

What.

“Did... did you call me a dog?” I love you Jesus, but that’s rude. A chuckle.

“Just watch.” 

I focused on the chocolate Lab again. She was running up and down these boulder cliffs like there was nothing to fear, like there wasn’t any possibility of her slipping and falling to the raging river below. Okay, I get it. God, you’re teaching me not to be afraid. Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders, kind of thing. Great. Good to know.

But just then, I saw a man walk out of the woods and onto the trail. He was wearing a blue jacket and started chasing the dog around in a joyful game. He followed her up the cliffs and together they stood at the edge of the rocks and gazed out across the river. He put a hand on her head and tousled her ears in a loving embrace.

“Do you think that man brought his cherished dog out to the river so she could prove herself to him? Do you think he is keeping a tally on how well she smells things, or runs around the trails, or how fast she is? Do you think he is watching to see if she going to be afraid of the cliffs? Do you think he is upset that they aren’t communicating perfectly?” 

I shook my head. (The family next to me was probably dialing the closest psychiatric facility.)

“He loves his dog. He is happy to simply be with her. That’s enough for him. "

*Crying progresses from Anne Hathaway tears to Kim Kardashian tears.*

~

To the God Who Comes... the God Who Loves. My Beloved friend, my dearest companion, the Shepherd of my Soul: 

A Love Letter, by Emmie Lancaster

You are the deepest joy of my life. Oh, that I could give you all of myself, completed and perfect and whole, an ornament of invaluable worth, because that is what you deserve.  I confess that my humanness is often more than I can bear. I confess that I am so easily overwhelmed with how-to's and details and rules and step-by-step methods that I completely miss the point... I completely miss you. I long to sit at your feet all the days of my life, to hear every word from your lips - to marvel at the expressions on your face, to bask in the glory of your resurrected body, to hold those marked hands in my own. I long to have the endurance and wakefulness to wait however long it takes for you to come and speak your words over and into me, but I confess that I grow tired of waiting. My mind dances with other things. I am distracted by the cares and vapors of this world. I confess that I don't love as you deserve. And I never will. 

Yet how you love me. Oh, my Beloved, if I am overwhelmed by the mechanics of prayer, than overwhelmed doesn't even begin to scrape at how to describe how I feel when I consider your everlasting love toward us! How can so perfect and complete and whole and holy and wonderful and magnificent of a being that there is no set of words in any human language that can even begin to paint a picture of who you are look on me with such love and speak to me... like a Father? How can it be that you care to be with me at all? That you wait for me and come to me and lead me and find me, and how can it be that you have such patience, such kindness, that you delight in even my fumbling-attempts at being with you? My unnecessary attempts to please you?

It's too lofty, Lord! I scarce can take it in. And perhaps an eight-hour retreat of silence was a bit off the mark, but you were faithful to teach me in your loving way as you always do. I look forward the days of my life, knowing that every moment brings me closer to beholding you in the fullness that you are. And I know in that Place and in that Time, we will at last communicate face to face like the old friends that we are. 

In silence I have found, again, that my soul can say in full belief: I will dwell in the house of Lord forever, and that's enough for me.  

White Girl Losses

I can't do it.... I just can't. I have sat in front of this computer for over an hour now, a mess... tears down my face... my insides all twisted and throbbing and aching...

I am just a mess. And I am at a loss -

a loss for words because I don't know what to say to make any of this right. 

I wish I could eloquently and articulately explain how wrong it all is or lay out statistics and sociological truths, and I wish I could logically and rationally explain through social media outlets the complex and painful world that we live in, and I wish I was well-versed and knowledgable enough to break down the arguments against racism and against hoisting that damn confederate flag around our country, and I wish I could do it all in a way that didn't make so many people from my hometown and family resent me.

a loss of courage because I care so much about what my people think of me that I remain silent instead of speak out against what is wrong. 

And it is wrong. It is so wrong. My God, everything is so wrong. People are dying... how can so many people not care? How is it that so many people on my Facebook and in my life don't care? Or even worse - they care... but only about themselves and posting their arguments to put the blame on anyone or anything else but racism and the systematic injustice that has for centuries oppressed people of color.... A black person (black people, so many people) dies unjustly at the hands of a system supposedly there to protect him/her, and you make this about you and your life mattering!?! You spin their story into some rhetoric about how he/she deserved it because they smoked weed? I have smoked weed before. Does that mean I deserve to be throttled alive, shot in the head, or the back, or left to die in a prison cell? Oh, she talked back to the officer? I talk back to authority all the time. In fact, I am often praised for it whereas people of color are literally eliminated from the earth while we stand back posting unflattering photos all over the media sphere, and nod our heads as we righteously explain: "She had it coming, acting like that." Don't you see what is happening!? It is racism! It is injustice! It is this wrong, wrong world. But I wouldn't say that because then we'll get in a fight in the comment section of my Facebook or you'll make me leave the house until I cool off and "see sense again."

a loss. Just a loss. So much loss. 

Because my coworker texts me, asking me to pray for her boyfriend, a black male, that was on the phone talking to her when he got pulled over, and it had been thirty minutes since he called her back and she is scared for his life. 

Because my friend living in Chicago is afraid to drive around her city because with any wrong move, it could be her name we see all over Twitter and Facebook. 

Because my roommate just had her birthday, and we wanted to celebrate by going for a hike at Stone Mountain, but there is a rally to stand for and celebrate the same southern heritage that fought to the death to keep her people enslaved. 

Because my student tells me that when he walks the streets of Georgia Tech at night, white students run away from him or cross the street quickly to avoid crossing paths with a black man with a hoodie on in December with a backpack full of chemistry books. 

Because my best friend calls me while she is driving to help her friend move, weeping... in hysterics.... because every where she looks there are confederate flags hanging from every car window, the driver not even realizing or not even caring just how much pain and fear this is causing her. I want to smash the window in, rip the flag out and scream and shout: "Do you see this woman? Look at her. This is my best friend, and she is the most beautiful person I've ever met and HOW DARE YOU? How dare you care more about your damn agenda and your 'southern heritage' than this beautiful, precious, wonderful life right here?"  ...this life, her life... his life... these remarkable lives... so many incredible people made in the glorious image of a merciful Creator, a Creator that, despite our insistence to the contrary, certainly thinks that Black Lives Matter. 

And Black lives, they do matter... so much. 

Because at any point, I could replace the word "black" with the name of any one my friends. Friends that have taught me more about the Gospel than I ever learned in a sermon. Friends that lament and mourn and grieve and raise their hands, imploring God to do something, while they are attacked on Facebook for expressing their feelings because to admit that this is wrong and it hurts and it is scary and racism exists is actually "perpetuating racism." ("racism against white people" "all lives matter" "etc")/(And by the way, what the hell kind of argument is that!?!?) Friends that show me steadfast grace when I say something insensitive, or when my privilege allows me to not have to deal with this injustice in the same way or at all, or when I get uncomfortable with their pain and don't know what to say. Friends that have taught me the meaning of long-suffering and unshakable faith in a God that will restore and bring freedom, at long last. Friends that open up, willingly sharing their stories of pain and brokenness and their experience of being black in this country - friends that choose to trust me despite all of the ways that I have hurt them in the past with my insensitive and ignorant remarks and jokes. My black friends teach me about Jesus. My black friends are some of the best parts of my life. 

And it comes to this. Because this is a long, emotional post that amounts to nothing except: "I am a white woman at a loss for how to deal with this." I am a white woman that struggles with her own racial prejudices. And her tensions of wanting to get defensive instead of confronting the twisted evil that my people have committed against people of color in the past and admitting that I am where I am today because of the ways that has shot me to the top of the ladder. And her fears that she will get yelled at or unfriended on Facebook if she says something against the status quo or posts this when she is finished writing it. 

Not to mention her attempts to write a blog that says something of value, that says something meaningful and true and foundational about racism and the lives of her black friends, but instead she makes it all about her and how 'hard' it is to live in this place of: "Honestly, I don't know what to do. And I'm scared if I speak up, I will get shot down." 

These are my white girl losses... the resounding, pulsating effects of my privilege. These are the gnawing, ripping sensations of feeling powerless for once in my life. These are the hands held open to my black friends, teachers, coworkers, mentors, roommates, and spiritual family, and these are the words I wish I could say: "I am so sorry. I can never express the evil we have done, the evil we still do. I wish it all was over. I wish the world saw you and treasured you in all the million ways you are worthy of. I wish the world was fair. I wish I wasn't so selfish and whiny so often, making our conversations and making blog posts about how uncomfortable this all is for me. And thank you. You can never know how much you mean to me. For you have shown me Jesus, you are his flesh... his hands that warmly grip me as you say, 'I forgive you.'"

White girl losses. Not even a whisper of what the black community has lost this year and throughout the centuries. 

White girl losses.

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but losses can lead to new life.

 "Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other." Psalm 85:10 

Hundreds of people walk the mountain with flags strapped to their backs, waving them proudly in their hands.

But look: there He is also. The man stripped bare, bloody and bruised, He is carrying the heavy wooden cross up the mountain upon which he will die, He carries it for us. He carries it for all of us. The oppressed... the oppressor... He carries it for this messed up world. He carries it that the poor would know good news - that the broken-hearted would be made whole - that those who mourn would know joy - that those in prison would be guilty no longer - that those enslaved... would be set free. Truly Free. Free Indeed.

Come Lord Jesus. Bring back what was lost.  

Hope For When A Quarter-Life Crisis Strikes

The other night, a few friends and I were hanging out at my place and discussing all matters of life. In this conversation, it suddenly occurred to me that I would be turning 25 this year. My heart began to race as my stomach dropped - this can't be happening... 25 is as close to 30 as it is to 20! I can't really be an adult yet... I mean, I'm not even married! Aren't you only an adult if you're married?? What have I really done with my life so far? Have I accomplished anything of value!? I mean, my dad still has to pay for my car insurance... I am still in the nest! I don't want to fly away! STOP TIME, STOP MOVING FORWARD!

I had a miniature quarter life crisis, I guess.

A few days later, I sat down to process what I was feeling in the midst of that complete psychological breakdown. And I realized: It has been nearly five years since I turned 20 years old. Five years of my life where I was living away from my parents, sorting out my own life, with freedom to do whatever my heart desired... and in all those five years... what had I really done?

If one were to measure the worth of my life - what great strives or accomplishments I have made in the past five years, I don't think anyone would be impressed.

What do I have to show for financial gains? Vocational success? Relational progress? I never traveled the world on a post-grad backpacking trip. I haven't figured out how health insurance works or how to maintain great credit or how to consistently mow the yard. I didn't go get my Masters and find an excellent, well paying job serving the underprivileged of our society as my undergrad degree prepared me for. I didn't find love in a hopeless place and settle down in a nice house in a good part of town. I haven't saved any lives recently, I haven't gotten anything published, I haven't had the starring role in any theatre productions...

So what have I done? Do the past five years of my life have any value at all?

It was truly a very depressing time of self-absorption and personal reflection. And honestly, since that event, I have been feeling very uneasy and even sickly. It was as if mortality, the weight of death and brokenness and hopelessness set in to remind me life is a whisper, and I was failing to make the most of it. I believe many of us can resonate with this. We all taste and desire that hope of greatness - we want our lives to matter. We all know life is passing - here in this moment, then gone away forever. We long for something, that in many cases, will never be satisfied.

But last night, Jesus stripped the scales from my eyes. Up to this moment, I was seeing my life and it's value through the lens of the world- the lens that says it is the money you make, the job you have, the martial status you live in, the adventures you take, the greatness you aspire to... it is this that makes you who you are and gives your life value. And through this lens, the past five years of my life may seem like a meaningless waste of time. However, the good and loving work of Jesus in my life was his tender stripping away of this lens, that I could look at my life and see it as Jesus sees it:

My life has value because Jesus has given it immeasurable value. 

I may not have a ton of money, and I may not be ascending the ranks of a prestigious job, and I may just have a bachelors degree, and I may not have seen all the world... but six years ago I decided to follow Jesus, and that.... it changed everything.

I believe it is in the acts of loving obedience... it is in the "yes" we offer up to Jesus even when we are only able to muster a whisper... it is in the trust we place in his hands even when we are desperate for more... it is in the times we try even though we are terrified, and we try and fail, and we try and mess it all up... it is in the moments of victory and in the moments when he feels so close that we are brought to our knees in adoration and praise... it is when we learn to cry "Abba, Father" as we make our way back home to him... it is in the times of clarity and the times of confusion... it is in the tears we cry before him because we just don't understand... it is in the prayers we pray even when hope seems lost... It is this: in our simple, everyday, seemingly insignificant decisions to follow Jesus, to love him, to know him... it is in this that we find our lives have remarkable value.

And it is in this: 

We met our students last night for our weekly gathering and taught them to share the Gospel. I wiped tears from eyes as I watched over them... a sense of God's pleasure over me filled my being. 

 We may not have a hundred students in our fellowship. We may only have ten. We may not have raised all of the money we need to be on campus full-time. We may only be 50% funded. We may not be the best teachers, best trainers, best evangelists, best speakers... in fact, we may be pretty bad at it sometimes. We may scare students off with our loud personalities, we may struggle to do follow-up well, we may only have four students show up to our summer small group every week.

But this is my life. This is what I offer up to Jesus. Every day learning and growing and striving to love him better than I did the day before. Taking risks, learning to trust him, spending some days weeping because I just don't have it figured out, and I am horrible at ministry, and I fail at everything I try... Believing that he will complete the good work he has started in me and Georgia Tech. Rejoicing in the little victories that speak to God's power and faithfulness, not to my skill or charisma. Resting in the knowledge that I am wholly loved, treasured, and valued by the One That Calls Me His Own.

I celebrate what God has done in me these past five years. I celebrate that though it be little, there is now InterVarsity at Georgia Tech/ME when it wasn't there before. I celebrate that God has given us a precious gift... a deeper knowledge and love of him as we struggle to follow him as apostles of his ministry and as his Beloved children. I celebrate in knowing that my life is valued and treasured and pleasing to the Father regardless of how successful I seem to the world. I celebrate in knowing he whispers, "Well done," even if my work seems insignificant to everyone else.

And I celebrate that because Morgan and I decided to trust and follow Jesus, even if it meant giving up worldly success, students at Georgia Tech will be changed just as our own lives were changed by others that decided Jesus' call was worth everything. 

GT students at weekly leadership meeting.

Teaching students how to share the Gospel on campus.

Students practicing their Gospel sharing.

I am now realizing, however, that Jesus... his Kingdom... his Good News... it is folly to the world, but it is hope for me. And it is satisfaction for me. There still may be the sting of incompleteness, it will be there until the world is made right again, but tucked away in the secret, mysterious reality of what I gave my life to - I can say with honesty and integrity, these past five years have not been in vain.