With my Nose to the Gravel...

"Then all the elders of Israel gathered together and came to Samuel at Ramah and said to him, 'Behold, you are old and your sons do not walk in your ways. No appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations.' But the thing displeased Samuel when they said, 'Give us a king to judge us,' And Samuel prayed to the Lord. And the Lord said to Samuel, 'Obey the voice of the people in all that they say to you, for they have not rejected you, but they have rejected me from being king over them...'"

 (1 Samuel 8:4-7, ESV)

I've been rereading my Bible. Each year I try to spice up my quiet times with something new and this year I decided that I would start in Genesis and read till Revelation. I would read scripture like the story it is. That means I keep reading until a particular thread is finished. I sit and read all through the story of Noah- ignoring the chapter numbers, that usually have me pausing. Ironically, throughout this election cycle I've been making my way through the stories of Israel's kings.

So my life was saturated with two narratives- one, was all about the battle between one ego-driven, sexist businessman and the corrupt, Lady Macbeth politician and one was the narrative of God's people who demanded a king and began generations of sometimes great and sometimes awful empires. This is how I spent my summer, my fall, and my winter.

God was telling me something, but I am a slow learner, a very slow learner.

This morning I was reading about Manasseh and the roller coaster ride that was his reign in Judah and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I've been asking all the wrong questions. I've been wringing my hands about the state of my country, the state of my friends and family, the state of my news feed. I've worried, debated, argued, and avoided. I've asked questions and tried to engage well. I've done all those things we do when we are participating in the process. And that's great- I guess. Except, I think I forgot something.

I forgot that there's a reason Israel kept having to tear down the altars of idols from the high places. They were asking the wrong questions too. They were wringing their hands about the state of their people, the state of their friends and family, the content of conversation by the temple gates (well, once a temple existed). They worried, debated, argued, and avoided. They asked questions and tried to engage well. They did all the things you do when participating in the process. Except for them- the process was the idol of Baal or some other foreign god. Me? My idol has become the belief that politics, politicians, and the "process" is the empire that saves us.

I forgot that there is only one King I bow to and he doesn't live in a white house or have a podcast. He isn't a liberal or a conservative. The King I bow to doesn't give me easy answers or easy outs. He calls me to action- that's for sure. He calls me to participate. But He also calls me to remember who it is I worship. I've been forgetting. I didn't mean to, but somewhere between Presidential debates and Buzzfeed articles I forgot.

I don't write this as a judgement to my community or as a way to say that we shouldn't be participating in what's going on in our world. I write it, because I need the reminder- in black and white, that God is King. That Christ is the only savior and that no matter who sits in power, one day their empire crumbles and all knees bow before the glory of the Almighty. It helps me keep perspective and it helps to remind me that my King calls me to grace, compassion, and kindness. He calls me to love. He calls me to seek out the other and to welcome the stranger. Those sound nice and they might look pretty if someone stitched them on a pillow, but I know that those are deeply sacred, deeply difficult calls to action.

I hope I have the courage for them.

Promises...

In the bible there's a story about a guy named Abraham. God makes a promise to Abraham and calls him out into the unknown. On that adventure Abraham spends a lot of time failing. It seems like every few steps Abraham is lying about something or doing something he wasn't supposed to. Abraham just keeps trying and hoping and believing. Years go by and God's promise must seem long forgotten.

I have always resonated with this story. I have always felt this tug on my heart, I have always felt like God was promising me something- calling me to adventure, but I couldn't quite figure out what the adventure was and there were so many days when the promise seemed to be nothing more than a whispered hope. My students ask me sometimes what it looks like to trust a God who they can't see and I've never really had a good answer for that- at least not an answer that satisfies them. But tonight as I think about my whispered promise and Abraham, I think I have an answer...

When I was five I made a decision that would change my whole life: I decided that I wanted to know God. Sometimes when we're young we make choices that our older, more cynical selves wouldn't articulate. So I decided I believed in God and that I loved him and the steps after that were just attempts at faithfulness. When I was eighteen I made another decision, I decided to go to Africa. While I was there I heard this Voice. I didn't quite recognize the Voice because it was quieter and louder and smaller and bigger than anything I'd heard before. But the Voice seemed to be calling my name. And so, at eighteen I decided to follow the Voice- wherever it called. The steps after that were just attempts at faithfulness. When I was 29 I made another decision, I decided to go to seminary. While I was there my mind opened wide. I learned new things and I learned new ways to look at old things. I worked hard and I believed that even in the moments when all seemed lost, God was leading me somewhere. The steps after that were just attempts at faithfulness.

At 32 I will spend Sunday being installed as a new Pastor. A lifetime of attempts at faithfulness has led me to a calling that I will spend my whole existence being grateful for. I listened to the Voice, even when it was hard, even when it led me to scary and new places, even when it felt as if the Voice had forgotten the long ago promises. I just trusted. I put one foot in front of the other, I failed- regularly, and I kept walking. On Sunday I will step into the sanctuary that has always been home to me and I will stand before my church and I will promise to keep listening to the Voice, to keep trying to be faithful. I will promise them that no matter what I do not belong to myself for I have always been and will always be the Lord's.

This, I think is that it looks like to trust a God you can't see. It means letting go, it means really believing that what you want is never as important as what He wants, and it means allowing yourself to hold onto the promise that He made.

In so many ways Sunday will be a big and important day, but it is also just another day that I get to attempt faithfulness. Thank God for that.

Currently Reading...

Over the last week I have had four friends ask me for a list of the books I'm currently reading (or recently finished). So, I thought I'd post it here. If you're looking for books to read, look no further! I'm only going to post books that I am reading/have read of my own volition. No school books here although that list would be really good so perhaps I have a future blog subject in my hands.

Currently Reading:
These are the books that are stacked on my nightstand. I don't really have opinions formed about these books yet because I'm not done with them. 
1. The New Jim Crow, by Michelle Alexander
2. The Autobiography of Malcolm X, by Malcom X and Alex Haley
3. Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon
4. Golden Son, by Pierce Brown
5. Rising Strong, by Brene Brown

Recently Finished Reading:
I'm limiting this list to 5 because in the last four months I've read close to 40 books and that's just too many to write about in this blog. I'll try to think of the 5 best ones so that you get exposed to some really interesting reads.
1. Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline: This is a great book if you love 80s pop culture and/or video games. Its fun and a really quick read. My only complaint is that the dialogue is a little cheesy. But for a YA book this is amazing!
2. Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn: This book is definitely for mature audiences only! It is dark and twisty and at moments it is incredibly graphic. BUT, if you like mysteries and you don't mind psychopaths than this is the book for you!
3. Wild, by Cheryl Strayed: I was gobsmacked at this book. It was deeply sad and intense and yet at the same time I found it inspiring and tenacious. I cannot recommend this book enough.
4. In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan: Don't read this book unless you're ready to say goodbye to cheetos.

My Place...

I believe emphatically in the idea of "place". I think our bodies and our souls and our senses root themselves to certain places and forever we are linked. For some, their place is right around the corner from home and they are able to visit it regularly. When they have a bad day or want to celebrate something, they can drive or walk or a ride a bike to the place that their soul longs for. That is not true for me. The place my soul longs for is a world away. In fact, it's about a 24 hour plane ride away. Sometimes when I tell people about my place they ask how I can be tied to somewhere that I've only been three times. They ask how it can be my place if I hardly ever go there. Here's how...

Some days when I close my eyes I find myself in the back of a truck, on a dirt path, in the middle of the night. I am staring up at this giant expanse of thick black and I see millions of stars littered across it. I feel the cool wind whipping against my cheek. Other days I will be going about my life and my breath will catch in my chest at the sound of a horn honking. In an instant I'm walking down a busy street in Durban. Teenagers are laughing and carrying their surfboards on their way to the water. I can taste the salt in the air. Or there are those days when I catch the scent of sweet grass and I am transported to the side of a grassy hill. The sun feels hot on my neck and I only have energy to put one foot in front of the other. As my legs carry me towards the top I can feel the anticipation of the view waiting for me. At the top I sit with friends in the dirt and the grass and we share the cold fizz of an orange Fanta and dream about the people we are going to become.

I visit my place when I think about what it felt like to stand in Nelson Mandela's cell on Robbin Island. I see my place when I remember the awe I felt at the sight of my first giraffe. I am in Africa with every zulu song imprinted on my heart.

No matter how long passes, no matter how many days or months or years it's been since I've seen those stars, part of me is always in Africa and I carry part of Africa with me. I carry the faces of the people who slowly transformed me. I carry the sound of rain on a tin roof. I carry the feeling of adventure and new growth and confidence.

I ache for this place always and yet in so many ways I'm always there.

He Bought Her a Wall...

When I turned thirteen years old a new TV show started beaming itself into my house once a week. Now, as a newly minted seventh grader I wasn't allowed to watch Dawson's Creek and yet in my first true act of teenage rebellion I managed to figure out a way to spend an hour once a week with Dawson, Joey, Pacey, and Jen. There are a lot of reasons why I hold this particular story story close to my heart and I could devote many, many blog posts to those reasons, but for today I think I'll simply write about one...

I am not a traditionally romantic girl. I do not get moon-eyed over pink holidays or spend my time daydreaming about beach strolls. And when it comes to love stories I prefer heroines who can save themselves to damsels in distress who need someone to swoop in. In fact, now that I'm writing about it, I really hate "swooping" in almost all its forms. I don't "ship" things (side note: I just learned what "shipping" is from my eighth grade students. For those in the dark, I encourage the use of google) and I don't get swept up in epic romances... except this one epic romance...

When Dawson's Creek first aired it was clear that the main focus would be on Dawson. It was his creek- his life that the show revolved around. But it took all of twenty minutes in the pilot for anyone with half a soul to notice the quiet brown-haired girl playing his best friend; Joey Potter: shy, passionate, artistic, and so incredibly insecure. It was clear that the writers of the show were as swept up with Joey as the rest of us watching at home and the story lines started bending towards her. One of those story lines happened to involve the world's greatest hockey player and my favorite Canadian: Joshua Jackson (aka Pacey).

In season three the writers did something wholly unexpected: they paired the female lead with the goofy sidekick. The storyline begins with Pacey and Joey spending more time together and becoming closer friends. They learn about what makes the other one tick and it isn't long before Pacey realizes that he loves this girl. These bullet points alone aren't what tied my teenage heart to this love story. I think what I loved was how tangible it felt. There was no running through airports or public declarations of affection. Joey didn't need a makeover and Pacey wasn't looking to change her. In fact, Pacey loved Joey as she was. He simply wanted to be someone who always encouraged her and was there for her. He wanted her to be exactly who she was meant to be. He wanted her to be great because he saw greatness in her. He believed in her when she couldn't see herself clearly. He trusted her. He respected her. His love wasn't loud or overbearing or a spectacle- it was quiet and selfless and consistent.

This is my favorite scene of these two. When I watched this moment on TV at the age of 16, I thought to myself, "Now that is romance." It doesn't matter how much time passes, whenever I catch a rerun or happen upon this youtube clip I still get the wind knocked out of me. This may be my one true girly indulgence.

You may be wondering, dear reader, why I am devoting precious blog space to a TV show that aired it's last episode before most of my students were even born. Well, I don't owe you an explanation, but here's one...

Last week I listened as a couple of my amazing Jr. High students talked about love. They spent about an hour dissecting the texts they'd received from boys and analyzing what in the world those few messages were really saying. My whole person ached as they came to the conclusion that until they lost more weight or learned something about video games or became "interesting" they were simply unloveable. They decided that their chests were too small, their thighs were too big, and they couldn't make their selfies look like Kim Kardashian's. Their little hearts longed to be seen and known and cherished. But they assumed that they weren't enough as they are.

I've been thinking about that conversation for a week now and I have many things to say about it. But for today, I simply want to say this: it took my 31 years on this planet to learn that real love has more tenacity than is painted for us in movies. Love isn't found on a scale or in a mirror. Love isn't defined by how many retweets you get or how often boys chase you. Pure, beautiful love is renting a girl a wall because she longs to be an artist and you want them to be exactly who they were created to be. Seeing someone, knowing them, cherishing them reveals itself not in using that wall as a bargaining chip to "win" that girl's heart, but in simply offering the gesture because you know it will make them smile.

My sweet girls (and boys) take the time to learn who you are. Take the time to love yourself, trust yourself, respect yourself and then when your Pacey comes along you'll be able to offer them something valuable- a whole person.

Good Friday...

When I was in college I discovered something new: I love school. I love learning and books and new ideas. I love feeling challenged, overwhelmed, and empowered. I love to listen to my teachers and my peers as they point out a new thread to me and take me on a new journey. The classroom has been, for me a place that opens up new worlds, new possibilities, and new hope. One of my favorite things about school is when a professor introduces something I've never heard before and as I hold this new idea in my hands and turn it over- examining it, I realize that what I'm holding is the precious metal of truth. It's rare to be introduced to new truth- a truth that you've never before seen. Holding something like that changes you. It refines you and grafts new depth onto your body. The longer you hold that truth the more it becomes a part of who you are. 

Today is Good Friday and as I sit in backyard and let the California sun warm my face I reflect on the cross and the Christ that was nailed to it. I realize that I look at this cross in a completely new way because of one teacher who handed me a new truth...

About three weeks into my Christology class I began to suspect that I wasn't smart enough to be sitting in the room, on the other hand all my peers looked equally lost- so maybe I was in good company. I remember this night in particular because I had walked into class feeling totally overwhelmed. I wasn't sure I understood my own existence anymore, let alone Christ's. I sat in my seat, took out my notebook, and decided that I would just pretend to know what was going on. 

My professor came in and began his lecture. He began to speak about Jesus. This wasn't new or unexpected- it was a Christology class after all, the point was to learn about who Christ was and is and what that identity means for the Church. But when he described Jesus- this man, this God I had heard about my whole life, Dr. Bantum handed me something new and something very unexpected.  He began to speak about the human things Christ did while on earth. He said that Jesus didn't eat simply to provide an example that eating is good. He didn't pray so that Christians would know prayer is important. He wasn't baptized so that we would have precedence for the act. Christ embodied divinity and humanity. He was a man- Jewish, born into a carpenter's home, grown in a woman's womb. And he was God- holy, sacred, unknowable. When that divine human stepped into the baptismal waters, he changed the waters themselves. When the bread of supper touched his lips, the act of eating was shifted. When he sent whispered prayers to the Father, the routine of communication was transformed. Christ's body changed everything. A moment before the lecture I had been sitting in a classroom, confused and frustrated. Suddenly I was holding new truth and turning it over and over.  

This morning I am turning an idea over in my mind again. I am thinking about Christ's death on a cross and wondering what kind of punctuation that cross was. I realize that his death wasn't simply a coma before the resurrection- it was a period. That divine man bled on wood and changed death forever. As he hung there, he shifted the cosmic understanding of finality. He breathlessly said, "It is finished." And yet, in some ways it had just begun. 

This morning I sit with grief that is hard to explain and darkness that settles on my shoulders. I won't move too quickly to thoughts of Sunday with it's light and celebration because of a professor who showed me that the darkness has things to teach us as well. I leave you all with his words about Christ and encourage you to let yourself be overwhelmed by this act that we can't quite understand...

"In Jesus we are confronted with God enfleshed who encounters us with a humanity we can neither classify nor ignore. In this encounter we can no longer grasp Jesus as a means of enclosing ourselves against the possibilities of entrapment, but we begin to see the radical transformation Jesus' presence gives birth to. The mystery of Jesus' incarnation must consume us." Dr. Brian Bantum, Redeeming Mulatto 

In My Head Tonight...

My Revelation professor says that most of the book boils down to one simple truth: What you do matters. Over the last ten weeks she has spent almost every class period imploring us to know that the ways in which we represent Christ to the world have impact- they matter.

In my life there are many, many people I love. I am one amazingly lucky woman because my life is woven together with so many different ideas and viewpoints. I was forged by Republicans and Democrats, Women and Men. I was connected to the dirt of this earth by people of faith who believe in a God that whispered the stars into existence, by friends who believe that those stars are simply the result of a big bang, and those who hold both sides as truth. In my life I am blessed to love heterosexuals and homosexuals, Buddhists, Muslims, Christians, and Atheists. I am honored to have learned from Armenians, Caucasians, Asians, Africans, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, and all the other beautiful colors that make up our world. I am me because of a wide variety of "you's".

And I've spent the last few months reflecting on these two ideas: how I live my life matters and all the diversity that breathed life into me. I've been trying to find ways to honor those who have taught me- to honor the God who loves me, and to honor the voice inside of me.

Tonight I was reading a comment thread on Facebook and I was shocked by the ways in which people speak to and about each other. I was hurt as people used the Christ, who is my whole world, as a weapon to bludgeon the other side. As I looked up from the glow of my computer I had to shake my head clear of the cobwebs because I had lost myself for a good hour in hate and vitriol and poison. All these conflicting opinions yelling at each other- but not really listening.

Each week at youth group I tell the Jr. Highers that I work with that this is a safe space. I encourage them to come to us, just as they are, and that they will have a place here. They belong. They know that there are very few things I won't tolerate, I can handle the occasional food fight or wrestling match- but the number one behavior that is absolutely banned is disrespect. I don't care if they like each other, but I care how they treat each other. But when I read comments on the internet I see that there are simply not the same rules. I think because we don't have to look each other in the eye we find it easier to unleash our perfectly crafted argument and not worry ourselves with how we come across. We forget that there is another human sitting on the other side of a screen.

This behavior goes beyond the ways that we handle ourselves online. Our world has become a brash place. I remember learning in history class that we once lived in a time where our President was protected by journalists who wouldn't photograph full body shots of him so his wheelchair wouldn't influence the nation. Today our President is barely treated as a human- let alone a man to be respected and frankly we didn't do much better with the last President either. I used to hear stories about news anchors that were seen as beacons of comfort during times of uncertainty. Today many of our journalists care more about ratings than they do truth.

We have stopped listening to those that think differently than we do. We have stopped letting ourselves engage in conversation and instead have turned our attention to winning. I say "we" because I am just as at fault as the rest of this world. I may have been shaped by many voices, but now that I know the tone and rhythm of my own voice, I seem to have stopped listening to anyone who disagrees with me.

Here's what I know to be true: How I live my life matters. The ways that I reflect Christ to those around me matters. How I love and listen and speak matters. So... tonight I take a step back from internet arguments and talking heads and heated debates over dinner. Tonight I choose to listen more than I speak. Tonight I remember that if I expect my students to respect each other I better be prepared to show them what respect looks like with how I live my life.

World Changers pt. 5...

Again, if you want to read this series from the beginning start here.

From left to right: Nic, Kenny, and Tommy- three of my favorite people on the planet

I have to begin with honesty and say that this isn't the first blog devoted to Tommy Klug and I cannot guarantee that it will be the last. So if you want to know more about why I love that little man so much you can start here. 

Tonight as I was thinking through who I wanted to write about next I found myself staring at the wall in my room. On this particular wall is a bulletin board and on that board are the most recent school pictures for the boys above. As I began thinking about the different people who have changed my life I realized that not another minute could go by without writing about these boys (and their mom and dad- but let's be honest Jeff and Amy are just not as adorable so they don't get top billing)...

Can I just put it all out there for a second? Is that ok? Gosh, I hope so.

Someday when I'm looking back on my life I really only want to be able to say three things about it. (1) I want to look back and be able to say that I loved and was loved- deeply, passionately, and with lots of laughter. I want to be able to say that I had a partner who walked with me through the hard stuff and the good stuff.

(2) I want to look back and be able to say that I was a mom. I want to have made lunches and wiped noses. I want to have checked under the bed for monsters and grounded a teenager (ok maybe that last one I could be willing to give up). 

(3) I want to look back on my life and know that I was faithful to my Lord. I want to see a life that did its very best to walk in step with Christ.

Now I've written here before about some of the reasons why #1 and #2 seem like faraway dreams. I am truly not being pessimistic when I say- I no longer believe that I'm promised a husband or kids. I just don't think that everybody gets those gifts. It has taken me a very, very long time to get ok with that. And there are nights when I'm not ok. There are nights when a little voice creeps into my heart and starts whispering about how my worth is tied up in those things and that I will be alone forever. That voice SUCKS! Ugh! I hate it. But I seem to always let it in and it wrecks major havoc on my soul. I'm cleaning up after it for weeks. 

BUT (isn't it great that there is always a but) on good days, on days when I have myself together enough to listen to God's voice, I hear the sound of Tommy's laughter, I see Nic's elusive smile, and I can still smell Kenny's magical "new baby" smell. These boys and their parents mean so much to me. First and most importantly, because they are family. Jeff and Amy are people who I would walk through fire for. I love them and I will be in their corner always. But these boys- these boys are walking reminders of the promises of God. 

Tommy reminds me that God does not leave us without hope. When I think of the story of how he came into Jeff and Amy's family I am always left feeling a sense of warmth. During a time of extreme grief and sorrow God was preparing Jeff and Amy's hearts for Tommy- reminding them that no child can be replaced and no loss can be forgotten, but we are not left without hope. 

Nic reminds me that God is faithful. When I think about all that this little boy faces I get this picture in my mind of Amy sitting next to him- watching him sleep. I have no idea if she actually does this, but I see the image anyway. I think of how tirelessly she fights for her boy. I think about the love that Amy has for Nic and it reminds me that God is also faithful with us.

Kenny reminds me that God understands the trajectory of our lives so much more clearly than we ever could. Kenny's birth is a marker for me- a reminder that even when I think I see the path ahead completely, there is always a new turn I wasn't expecting. 

These three little men brighten my day and I don't even get to see them that much. But they have changed my world- just by living in theirs and when I open valentines cards that they've made me or watch a Facebook video of them playing I remember these important lessons. The Klug family continue to teach me that I can hope and dream and wish because I am not forgotten by my God. What a powerful gift that is.

World Changers pt. 4....

"There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires." -Nelson Mandela

Have you ever felt like you know someone so well that sometimes you hear their voice speaking softly to you? Have you ever felt that way about someone you've never met? If not, than I'm not sure you are really going to understand this post because what I have to say about Nelson Mandela is personal and intimate and leaves me feeling vulnerable. Yes, Nelson Mandela is a World changer, I think there aren't many who would disagree with me on that. But Nelson Mandela is in this particular blog series because of how I hear his voice speaking softly to me.

I was fourteen the first time I heard the word "apartheid" and the person I heard it from was Mel Gibson. I was watching Lethal Weapon 2 for the first time and South Africa happened to be a major plot point. I had no idea what was going on. I was embarrassingly ignorant. I suppose many fourteen year olds are. I didn't think much of this word that I didn't understand, but God filed it away in my heart for later. Four years ticked by and I found myself standing on the greenest mountain I had ever seen, looking out at South Africa- a country that would fundamentally define me.

Me and the wonderful humans that I traipsed around Africa with in 2002.

While I was in South Africa I fell in love- madly, deeply, permanently with everything and everyone I encountered. So when I returned stateside I started to read everything I could about this country that meant so much to me. Among the various books and articles was Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela. And it was there among the pages of Mandela's life that we met. It was there that I first discovered the heart and strength of a man who I had never met and it was there that he changed my world. 

I found so many things inspirational about the life that Nelson Mandela lived. I'm sure many people do. As one of the leaders for racial equality and justice in South Africa he affected countless lives. But he changed my world because of something we don't learn about in school. When I read his memoir I was struck that he didn't shine his life up before presenting it to the world. He was honest, sometimes brutally so, about the way he grew up, the mistakes he made, and the regrets he had. He wasn't trying to present the world with the perfect legend that they could build their house upon- he was just writing his story and that story was messy. He wasn't a perfect man, but that didn't mean God couldn't use him to move mountains. 

In 2009 I traveled back to South Africa for the third time. On this particular trip I had the immense honor of visiting Robbin Island (the prison that Mandela was held in during his 27 years of unjust capture). Today on Robbin Island the guides are men that were actually imprisoned during apartheid. They walk you through the facility telling you their story of the fight for justice. I cannot express how powerful that is. I do not have words for it. I was mesmerized by these men. My brain and heart just couldn't fathom how they put one foot in front of the other after the injustice they faced. Towards the end of my tour our group ended up in front of Nelson Mandela's cell. Here was the tiny room he lived in for almost all of those 27 years. Here he lived- protesting the injustice of his people. Here he lived- caged up like an animal because his voice and his strength terrified those in power. Here he lived- with poise and strength. 

Mandela's cell

I walked into that cell and stood there for what felt like hours. Tears poured down my face as I touched the bars and looked out the window. I had church in that small cell that day. As I walked back into the yard and felt the cold, African breeze whip by my face I heard Mandela's voice in my heart for the first time. I heard his voice asking me what I was willing to do when it came to the battle for what is right. I heard him asking me if I would stand up even if it cost me everything. Today when I find that fear is taking me over and I don't know how to overcome it I close my eyes and I hear that voice. I see the bars and I feel the cold, loneliness of isolation. I hear Nelson Mandela asking me to stand up. This man- he changed my life by living his with strength and courage.

The following is the speech that Mandela gave on the day he was released from jail. Watch it and let yourself be challenged to live with courage. 

Nelson Mandela's Release in 1990

World Changers pt. 3...

If you want to start this series from the beginning than start here.

Peter Remington Dunn is one of my favorite human beings. There's a lot of reasons for that. He is funny and creative. He's never afraid to say what he thinks and he asks a lot of good questions. He also has managed to find one of the most beautiful, witty, caring women in the world and convinced her to marry him (rumor has it that his dance moves cannot be ignored). So basically Peter's living the high life. I am proud to be Peter's friend, but that's not why he is one of my world changers. He gets his own blogpost because he is my pastor and as my pastor he is teaching me to really see the world around me.

Peter pastors the evening service at our church. It is a rag-tag group of weirdos- college students, men and women in their early-mid thirties, a couple families, the elderly, and at least 1/3 of our congregation is made-up of local men and women who are homeless. I'm not sure how we all came together, but here we are walking in together every Sunday evening. We meet in the original sanctuary of our church which has been changed into the gym or youth room. The space itself represents our service well- it's messy and smattered with DIY projects, but somehow it feels like home. Although our service is an off-shoot of the larger congregation in a lot of ways we feel like our own church. 

I've spent a lot of time thinking about what makes our service special because honestly we are not reinventing the wheel. There's a time of prayer before we begin, worship music, a sermon, coffee, and "greet your neighbor". I mean, let's be honest, these are the basic evangelical ingredients since the dawn of time. But there is something about the way we mix these ingredients together that makes me feel like I'm tasting a brand-new concoction. 

Now look I know the biggest and most important aspect of our church is that God is moving and breathing and directing our steps. We are just dirt until he picks us up and breathes life upon us. BUT one of the ways that God interacts with us is through Peter. Peter is the best kind of pastor. He trusts the Spirit within him to move mountains, but he doesn't want anyone giving him the credit when the rocks start to roll. He looks into an empty space and he sees life in it. He sees how to set lighting and use music and media to engage his church. But he doesn't believe that a particular slide is going to transform someone's life. He wants to collaborate. He wants to hear new ideas and brainstorm through the old ones. All of those are reasons why Peter makes a great facilitator for our church, but it isn't why he is our pastor. 

Peter is our pastor because he challenges us to see Christ's movement in the world. He sees each and every one of us in our seats and he knows that if we offer our lives to Christ there is nothing stopping us from changing the world. Peter believes that the Church exists to provide for spiritual needs and physical ones. That means he doesn't just plan a sermon, he also finds ways to live that sermon out. So for example, last night he preached about the gift that is Jesus in a manger, and he bought a new tent for one the homeless members in our church. He crafts a series on community and then he facilitates community meals so that we gather together and get to know each other. Peter sees the unseen and he hears the voiceless. He cares deeply for the oppressed and disenfranchised and he shows that compassion by living his life in a way that loves- always. Peter is never going to be the guy that just buys a hipster beanie because the company gives to charity. Now don't get me wrong, he will rock that beanie with every hipster bone in his body- but he will wear it while actually serving his community. 

I learn something new everyday from my friend, my colleague, and my pastor. Peter truly is changing the world and I can't wait to see what happens next.

World Changers pt. 2...

Author's Note: Continuing the series of men and women who have changed my life. To read from the beginning start here.

When I was ten years old I read the book Zlata's Diary. Zlata was a young girl who lived in Sarajevo during the war in 1992. She was inspired to keep a journal after reading The Diary of Anne Frank. Eventually her diary was turned into a book and I found it on a shelf at my elementary school's library. Zlata's story captured me. To this day I don't really understand what it was about Zlata that I was so consumed by, but her story sparked something in my heart that would define the woman I was going to become.

As a ten year old I saw a lot of myself in Zlata. In fact as I looked at her picture on the back of the book I thought we even looked a bit alike. She was only a few years older than me and even though we lived on different sides of the world, we were both just girls. She kept a diary and so did I. Even though many of her entries were a place that she worked out the pain and trauma of living in a war zone, there were plenty of entries about life. She wrote about her family and her cat. She wrote about her favorite foods and her birthday wishes. In many ways my diary was a mirror image of hers. 

When I finished the book, I had to read it again. And as I reread the pages of one girl's fear and terror I grew more and more convinced that I had to do something. So I wrote a letter to President Clinton, asking him to help Zlata and her family. Even at ten I was convinced that my government could save the day. A few weeks went by and as far as I could see nothing was changing. This frustrated me. So I  thought maybe more people needed to hear Zlata's words. I was convinced that if someone else could read her book or learn her story they would be just as passionate as I was about helping her.

Around this time I was competing in a speech contest with my school. I decided that my speech had to be about Zlata. I wrote up what my 10-year-old brain thought was the perfect snapshot of Zlata's story and I knew that as my teachers and friends heard about Zlata they would want to help bring about change. My little speech kept winning round after round and in a few weeks I found myself at the district-level contest. On the night of the contest I stood up at the podium and as fervently as I could, I talked about Zlata. I read her actual words and I spoke about how unforgivable it was that I was a girl with the freedom to play in my yard or walk to my friend's house and Zlata was hiding in her house, cowering from air raids and hungry because of the lack of food. I urged the people in front of me to care- to care that a little girl they didn't know wasn't getting the chance to live her life. 

I'm not sure that my speech really made any difference. I went home with second place and my first dose of cynicism. But I'm so glad that I "met" Zlata through the pages of her diary. Her life marked something important in me. Her life stood as a reminder that there are always those living with less, struggling with pain and hurt, and attempting to walk through traumas. Some of those people are easy to love because they look like us or we know them. But some of those people don't fit into a neat box. 

Zlata's courage in the face of such devastation was the first time that I saw how important standing up with others is. In her diary Zlata often wrote about how lonely she was. She wondered if anyone cared about what was happening to her city. She struggled, because she felt alone. Those words imprinted themselves on my heart and I decided right then that I would never ignore the hurts and brokenness I saw around me. I decided that I wanted to help. Zlata may have felt alone in Sarajevo and in so many ways she was. But her words inspired and transformed a little girl in America and for that I am eternally grateful. I want to end this post with Zlata's own words about war and resistance. Let them inspire you with courage of your own...

"I keep thinking about the march I joined today. Its bigger and stronger than war. That's why it will win. The people must be the ones to win, not the war, because war has nothing to do with humanity. War is something inhuman."

World Changers...

I've had a writing project on my mind for the last few weeks and I've finally finished finals so it seems the time is NOW! I've been inspired by an advent devotional that a powerhouse of a woman has been writing (find it here) and I want to do something similar. 

In my life I have been blessed by people who continue to teach me, to challenge me, and to help form me into the person I am today. As they say, no one is an island and even though that's totally a cliche- it happens to be true. I want to devote some blog space to the people who I admire- who teach me what it means to walk around on this earth with intentionality. So... all that to say, the next few entries I'll be profiling the world changers who I love, some I know personally and some I just admire from a distance (not in a creepy way). 

Here we go...

Sarah Keough is my best friend. We met in August a few years ago at orientation for seminary. We were placed in the same small group and the rest is history. Sarah and I bonded over our mutual distrust of authority and our very real, very vibrant love of stupid television shows. Sarah is truly one of the greats, and here's why...

In addition to being beautiful and funny and fiercely loyal Sarah happens to be smart. I'm not talking "I did ok on the SATs" smart, I'm talking "better put her in the bunker if the world blows up because we need her brain and also her heart" smart. Sarah sees the world like no one I know. She sees God's hand in it. She sees nooks and crannies that the rest of us are blowing by. Sarah takes in details and finds ways to weave them together that are so unique and so beautiful that you just want to cry and build a monument in their honor.

I have learned so much from Sarah. I have learned that it is ok to take time to really think something through before running my mouth or finding a solution. I have learned to find the systems in place that take advantage of others and to fight like hell to dismantle them. I have learned that waiting for someone else to stand up before I do is cowardice. 

I love this sister of mine. Sarah is going to change the world with her voice and her heart and her brain. I love that I have a front row seat for it and I'm going to be cheering her on every step of the way. 

Also side note: I love that she is going to hate this blog post because it's gushy and about her and she is going to be so embarrassed. Unfortunately for her, my desire to brag about her outweighs her desire to not be written about.

Currents, October 2014

I realized that my last few blog posts have been pretty heavy. I am in desperate need of a distraction and so here are the current things occupying the space in my mind, heart, and life...

Drink: Well California is currently in the middle of God's wrath, otherwise known as the hottest fall known to man. So my drink of choice is cold, ice water. I'm slurping it up by the gallon.

Project: I have a small, white dresser that I use as a TV stand in my room. It's so adorable and I love it. But recently I've been tossing the idea around of painting it, it also really needs new hardware. I'd love to shnaz it up a bit.

Location: When I returned home to SoCal I discovered that the Del Amo Mall had been totally remodeled. This may seem insignificant to those who don't know Del Amo, but this was an iconic mall of my youth and it has been fun exploring the changes.

TV Show: The Good Wife is the best drama on television. If you aren't watching this show you are a crazy person, like seriously. This show constantly surprises me. The writing is intricate and impressive, the acting is on point, the direction is focused. I find that after an hour of Good Wife I am surprised to be back in my real life because I completely disappeared into the story. GO WATCH THIS SHOW!

Worry: The LA freeway system

Movie: I've got to say I've been pretty disappointed in the big screen lately. I haven't really seen anything that looks worth throwing down $13. But I plan on going to see Gone Girl, so I'll let you know if it lives up to the hype.

Food: I have perfected salad dressing. I know, I know this seems like a stupid thing- but I am telling you salad dressing makes or breaks the salad. With this godforsaken heat I haven't wanted to turn on the stove or oven so we've been eating a lot of salads. After a lot of tinkering I can officially say I make the best salad dressing on the planet.
Here's my recipe for a simple, healthy, delicious salad:
Spring mix with extra arugula
bell pepper
red onion
carrot
avocado
cucumber
A LOT OF DICED CILANTRO
For the dressing: garlic salt, pepper, olive oil, lemon juice, balsamic vinegar

Celebrity Crush: Emma Watson is killing it right now with her work on HeforShe.

Obsession: Daydreaming about winning the lotto.

Book: This month all my reading happens to be stacks upon stacks of books for school and those books are much too boring to mention here. But I am compiling my "on break" reading list.

Thankfulness: My beautiful church family who loves me, supports me, and puts up with my wild inclinations.

Indulgence: I've found this hole-in-the-wall doughnut shop by the beach that serves glazed doughnuts with brown sugar crumble. I'm not going to lie, I'd stab a guy for these doughnuts.

Fashion: Now that I'm back in Southern California I get to live 24/7 in dresses again. I do love a sundress.

Music: This and this have been healing my soul in a summer and fall that I've found incredibly tragic.

Why the Conversation Matters...

"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." -Nelson Mandela

When I was eighteen years old I got into a plane and flew across the world to South Africa. Before I got there I had a "briefing" about some of the country's history. I was given an overview of Apartheid and the effects that racism had on the country. Like the other members of my team I was horrified by the facts and stories we heard in that briefing and I just kept thinking to myself, "Thank God that's over." My white, middle-class, feminine self believed with her whole heart that because the law had changed, the country had changed- and then the plane landed.

What I found when I waded into African soil was that the effects of hatred are far-reaching. As I listened to stories and walked through townships I realized that the work was just beginning. I saw pain and poverty like I had never seen before. But what struck me the most was the distance in the conversations the country was having. There were some who would say, "South Africa has seen a dark time, but we've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and things are better now. We're working together and we've silenced the voice of hatred." The mouths that spoke those words were using white and well fed. The other story I would hear came from the black body, it was a body that was tired- tired of the fight, tired of the pain, tired of the humiliation. That body usually said something like, "We've come a long way. We've battled a long time and there is still much to do. Perhaps the voice of hatred isn't shouting anymore, but it's whispers are just as deadly."

I've spent this week thinking a lot about my time in Africa. The stories coming out of Ferguson remind me of the nights when I slept under African stars. And once again I see two very different stories being presented.

On the one hand there's a narrative that a black "man" robbed a store, assaulted a police officer, and was unfortunately shot in the course of trying to maintain peace and order. As a result of that event people have flocked to the streets and used violence and anger against a city and government that is simply trying to do their job.

The other story says that an African-American BOY was murdered, left bleeding on the street for hours, and dismissed. This atrocity devastated a community that had had enough and they raised their voices and at times their hands and demanded that something change.

Once again the conversations are far apart.

I don't know what happened in the last moments of Michael Brown's life. But I do know this. I know without any doubt that racism still exists in our world and it still exists in our communities. I know that when people are held down long enough, eventually they reach a breaking point and I believe the community of Ferguson (and perhaps the world that is watching) has reached that point. I know that when we look at our neighbor and see skin color or political ties instead of fellow people we are headed for an explosion. I know that my country is filled with people who look differently than I do and believe differently than I do, but those people were also knit together by the Lord Almighty. They are held together with the same muscles, blood, and nerves that I am. I know that we need to stop yelling our stories at each other, take a seat, and listen.

Our conversation is too far apart.

My whole self aches as I watch and read the news coming out of Ferguson. I ache for Michael's mother, who lost a son and in turn lost a piece of herself. I ache for our country- so busy with winning an argument that we've forgotten compassion and grace. But mostly I ache because we have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. 

That is why we must talk about this and not just with the people who look like us and think like us. It is time to listen- listen to the hurting as they cry. Listen to the angry as they shout. Listen to the whispers and the warnings and the stories. Listen when it costs us something. Ferguson is not just a town in some part of the country that doesn't have anything to do with us. Ferguson is our town and our people and they are crying out. Will we hear them? Will we risk what is comfortable and listen to them? Will we attempt to hear the story that doesn't read like the one we've lived out and learn what is written on their pages? I hope so.

Perhaps in those moments our conversations will run together, bleeding both black and white.

Falcon Strong...

The past two days have been a whirlwind and at the same time it feels like the minutes have inched by. Is that possible? How does that happen? I've tried to form cohesive thoughts about the tragedy that my community has seen and I'm not sure I have any. But putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys as the case may be) helps me and so I'm going to try to make sense of my feelings and my thoughts, even though there may be no sense to hold onto.

On Thursday when I got the text that campus was in lockdown I was already in Bellevue. This quarter I've had a class off campus and I carpool there with three friends. We try to get there early to beat the traffic and that punctuality meant we weren't at SPU when the shooting began. The four of us sat in a Starbucks, huddled around a laptop that was streaming the news and texted with our friends. I felt this cold, biting fear as I waited to hear that the people I love were ok, I also wept as I thought about the friends who were never going to get the "I'm ok, I'm in lockdown and waiting for information" text. We waited in that Starbucks until we got a text that campus wasn't on lockdown anymore and then we got in the car and drove back. We just wanted to be with out friends, our teachers, and our school. At one point on the drive home I felt such sorrow because I realized even if we were all safe, we were never going to be ok.

We aren't ok. I'm not ok. My heart is broken. A man walked into one of our halls and opened fire and everything changed. We want answers and there just aren't any. A life was taken and others were severely injured (both physically and emotionally) and that can't ever be erased. I'm angry and devastated. I'm broken and fearful. SPU is now part of those lists: Sandy Hook, UCSB, Virginia Tech, SPU. I hate that list. I don't want to be on it. I don't want it to exist at all. But here we are. We can't go back to before June 5th. Our identity carries this now.

But we aren't simply this event. There's a reason that Seattle Pacific University is a special place.

Do you know what happened immediately after this event? My school's leadership team planned a prayer service. A few hours after lockdown was lifted we poured into that church. People were sitting on the floor, standing in the aisles, piled onto the stage, and still we didn't all fit. Teacher, student, administrator- we were all there. We held each other and cried and sang and prayed. Our amazing Dr. Spina spoke words of truth over us. Words we needed to hold onto so desperately. We recognized that this event wouldn't rip us from each other. This event wouldn't steal our community.

Do you know what happened that night? Students took it upon themselves to form a candlelight vigil. They gathered and cried and held tightly to the truth that we aren't alone in this tragedy. Our God laments as well and we walk with each other.

Here's what has knocked me over: my teachers. My wise, sensitive, amazing teachers have cared for us even when I know they themselves need to be cared for. I got emails from all of them on Thursday night, saying that they would be on campus Friday and that if any of us needed to process we should feel free to come by. These men and women were huddled in classrooms during lockdown too, but they wouldn't let the fear win. They are teachers and leaders and so they teach and they lead. They teach me that love and compassion win over bullets. They lead me towards the throne room of the King and I am proud to follow them.

Yes, we are broken. We aren't ok and I think it will be a very long time till we are. In fact I think all of us will carry June 5th on our backs for the rest of our lives. It will always be part of our story. Yet, I don't think I'll ever be able to think of that horrific day without also thinking of the way my friend Anh grabbed my hand in Starbucks, reminding me I wasn't alone or the sound of voices singing praise to our Lord in that packed prayer service. I'll never be able to remember June 5th without getting choked up at the image of Dr. Watson waiting in his office to pray and process with his students or the pastoral staff of countless churches offering their ears and arms to those of us who needed it.

Yes, we are broken but that isn't all we are.

Shannon...

It is with a heavy heart that I find myself typing another blog about the death of a loved one. It seems like we were just beginning to find a way to put one foot in front of the other with the loss of Mary and now here we are, mourning Shannon. I don't have words for the heaviness of this grief. I just don't. And I'd decided that I wasn't going to write a blog about Shannon because it just seemed like too much- too much hurt, too much sorrow, way too much loss. But I can't sleep tonight because of these words I have within me and so here I am, spilling them onto the screen...

I imagine over the next few weeks Facebook will be overloaded with stories of who Shannon was, in fact the stories are coming already and it hasn't even been 24 hours since she died. There will be stories of her strength and courage, stories of how she cared for her family, stories of her commitment to the Watt's Powerhouse food bank, and stories of her faith. There will be the "big" Shannon stories, like how she bravely worked at LAX during those first days of 9/11 (Special Agent Kitten through and through), stories of her time in Hawaii with Erin, stories of how much she loved walking on the beach, or the marathons she ran. I've tried to figure out what my "big" Shannon story is and I find that I don't have a "big" story- just a quiet one. A simple memory that I will wrap carefully and place in my heart. A small story that will give me the courage to live a life as bravely as Shannon did.

Many, many moons ago I was working as the high school intern at St. Andrews. As part of my job I planned a "girl's retreat" weekend with my co-leader, Chelsea Hellinga. We planned a fun overnight at a fancy hotel and we were excited to spend some time with our small group girls, lounging by the pool and staying up late. One of the lovely ladies that went on the trip was Colleen Hamilton. We had a wonderful weekend and I didn't think much more of it until the next week.

The next week I was at the Hamilton's for dinner, they hosted us college kids weekly, feeding us and entertaining us with their banter. Shannon pulled me aside and said she wanted to thank me. I asked her what for and she said that Colleen had so much fun at the retreat and she was so glad. I told her she was more than welcome, and I figured that this was just another parent thanking her kid's youth leader for getting her out of the house and bringing her home in one piece. But Shannon grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes and said, "No, thank you. Colleen has been feeling out of place at church. I feel like she's been drifting a bit and she needed this. I've been praying that Colleen would feel connected again." Then she gave me a big hug and sent me on my way.

Here's why that moment has always stuck with me. Shannon taught me something really important about being a parent that night. First, she taught me to know your kid. I was so shocked that Shannon was that tuned to what her daughter was feeling. She knew Colleen. She knew what her child needed. Shannon loved her children fiercely but beyond loving them, she KNEW them. She was committed to understanding who her children were and this small moment taught me how important that is. Finally, I'll never forget the fervor with which she spoke about praying for Colleen. It was clear that this wasn't some half-hearted prayer. These were "knock on the gates of heaven" prayers. Shannon was constantly lifting her family to the Lord, trusting him to cover what she couldn't.

Maybe tomorrow I'll think of a funnier Shannon story or a Shannon story that has some deep insight, but tonight I'm happy with my simple tale. I feel so honored that I got that five minute conversation with Shannon because it planted some very important seeds deep within me. I know that Shannon's legacy lives on in her children and her husband and even Rudy. But Shannon's legacy will also live on in me as I strive to listen and learn who the people around me are and as I do my own pounding on heaven's doors.

Peggy Olson...

Seven years ago I started watching Mad Men. On that first episode I was introduced to Peggy Olson. I didn't know it at the time, but Peggy was going to be one of those characters that settled into my very bones- Peggy was going to teach me something vital about myself. Tonight, seven years later, I watched the mid-season finale for the very last season of Mad Men and I couldn't take my eyes off Peggy.

See, I think most people assume Mad Men is about Don Draper. And of course we think that, because Don saunters into a room- shoulders back, whiskey in hand, suit- impeccable. Don owns the room- hell, Don is the room. And while we're all busy watching Don use that silver tongue of his to win clients and lie to his wife, we haven't noticed that Peggy walked into the room too. Peggy was just this girl who typed Don's schedule and made sure the bar in his office was stocked. She didn't know who she was or what she wanted. The words that were used to give value to women didn't apply to her: "beautiful," "mother," "sexy," "wife" and so Peggy spent a couple seasons trying to figure out what words did apply to her.

Over the years I've watched this girl stumble around like a newborn giraffe and the more she walked, the surer of herself she became. Each season Peggy stood a little taller, walked with a little more confidence and tonight she owned the room. As I listened to her pitch to a client I kept thinking about what she'd had to fight to get into that room. I thought about all the battles she'd been in just to earn a seat at the table and I was so proud of this fictitious character that my heart about burst.

It was smack in that moment of pride that I realized the imprint Peggy leaves on me because like Peggy, it took me a while to find my voice. Like Peggy the words society wants to use to add value to women don't necessarily apply to me, like Peggy I chose a profession that is largely dominated by men, and like Peggy it has taken quite a few stumbles before I figured out how to walk. I spent seven years watching Peggy succeed and fail, try and fall, and learn who she is. I hope someday I will look back on my own life and discover that my own stumbles helped wear a trail for those who will come after me.

Mary…

I have written and rewritten this blog a hundred times already. I'm not even completely sure that this version is going to make it out onto the ether. I have had this heavy load of emotions and thoughts and I've been wanting to set it down and try to make some sense of it. This particular weight has been hard to process. It's really hard to think about exposing these feelings. But here I am anyway, typing and exposing, hoping that the process of writing itself will help heal me.

This weekend I flew back home to California so that I could attend the funeral of a dear friend, Mary Cox. Mary is a main character in the story of my life. My family moved to Redondo Beach about twenty-five years ago so that my dad could be the senior pastor of St. Andrews. Mary, her husband Tom, and their four kids (Amy, Katie, Emily, and Kevin) were very involved members. Our families connected right away and became fast friends.

Amy was my regular baby-sitter, she let my brother and I jump on our parents' bed while we watched Newsies and there was literally no one in the world I thought was cooler than her. Katie, watched me a couple times as well, and I also thought she hung the moon. Emily was a year younger than me and my best pal. We terrorized our sunday school teachers (including trying to fire one, a story for another time), played handball, mermaids, and read baby-sitters club books. Kevin was my little brother's age and although he was never more than an annoyance growing up, he grew up to be someone that I respect, love, and cherish.

The Cox family was my family. Mary and my mom used to throw us all in the car weekly and take us to the beach. We vacationed to Palm Springs together. Every year we all spent a week at family camp, getting dusty and eating those Pine Valley delicacies. Tom and Mary always had a house full of us. We played ping-pong in their garage, ate salsa while trading stories in their kitchen, and they hosted more than their fair share of parties. Mary and Tom taught me how to make a card game an event. Playing hearts with them was not for the weak. That yellow house has seen it all.

Mary was a spitfire. It was said over and over at the memorial, but it bears repeating: that woman knew how to speak her mind. Gosh, this is something I wish I was better at. I'll never forget one Saturday I found myself over at the Cox's and I was waiting on Emily for something (I can't for the life of me remember what). I wandered into the backyard to talk to Mary. She was laying out in the sun, wearing her infamous blue and white polka-dot bikini. I sat next to her while she asked me about school, my relationship with God, and what I planned on doing with my life (I think I was probably around 10). I told her I didn't know and I must have said that too apathetically. Mary sat up, her short hair sticking in all directions and she proceeded to give me a lecture about using my life for something. She told me that my voice matters, that God gave it to me for a reason and I better not waste it.

Mary taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to make the world's best chocolate chip cookies (although, I do think Katie has improved upon that recipe if it's even possible). Mary taught me about fighting for what you want, whether it's a smaller dress size or a college education. She taught me what it means to really hold someone up. When Amy lost her sweet Leah, I watched Mary use every bit of strength in her to hold Amy up and when she first got her cancer diagnosis I watched as she gathered that strength again for her family.

A couple years ago, right after the diagnosis, I was standing in the Cox kitchen talking to Mary. I'd brought over dinner (because that's what we do when we don't know what to do) and she was thanking me. Once again, we got talking about life. She asked me about school (I was headed to seminary in a few months), boys (I had nothing of interest to note), and what I planned on doing with my life. I told her I wasn't sure and I hoped seminary would help me figure it out. She asked if I planned on getting ordained and I told her I wasn't sure. Then she looked me right in the eye and said, "Why not? God has given you a voice Chelsea and you better use it. We need more women in the pulpit. These men need us to point them in the right direction." I nodded, at the time not really thinking much of it. I was mostly shocked that we talking about me when she had much bigger things going on. I asked her how she was and she said she was fine (because that's what you say when you don't know what to say). She said she was worried about her family, she wanted to be there to make sure they'd all be ok and at the time we really didn't think she was going to be there for very long.

This past weekend our church was bursting at the seams to say good-bye to Mary. The church was standing room only. I sat in my pew and listened while people talked about her life and her legacy. I cried while we sang some of her favorite hymns and I laughed when we watched the slide show and I saw what joy she had in those pictures.

Tonight, as I sit on my bed, back in Seattle I can't help but think about my friend Mary. I can't help but think about the mark she leaves on my life. I think her legacy is two big things. The first is her family: Tom, Amy, Jeff, Tommy, Nic, and Kenny, Katie, Jeremy, and Owen, Emily and Mike, and Kevin, Colleen, and JP. The Cox Family- her family and my family. These are people that I can't imagine my life without and I love them with every little bit of me.

The second thing that Mary leaves me with is the knowledge that nothing in this world is as important as my faith. But Mary taught me that's got to be more than just showing up on Christmas and Easter. It means not wasting my life and using that voice of mine. A year from now I'll be graduating seminary and I plan on seeking ordination. I think Mary would be proud to know that she played an important role in helping me get there.

I love you Mary Cox- now and always.

hiding under the bed...

on days when the world is a little too cold and i just want to pull the covers over my head the following things always make me feel better. consider them the next time you need something comforting…

1. reading harry potter:
books have always been my bright light. sliding into old stories soothes my soul and helps calm me down. harry potter books are particularly good at this.

2. watching the west wing:
nothing is as comfy as listening to aaron sorkin dialogue and watching my favorite characters storm down hallways in the white house.

3. listening to my "moody mcmoodster" playlist:
included in this list is savage garden (no, i'm not ashamed), wakey!wakey!, U2, augustana, and jack savoretti.

4. cooking:
some of my best creations have come out of times when my spirit is all "swooshy." my favorite: parmesan mashed potatoes, you can thank me later.

5. snuggles with my pup:
self-explanatory

Long Time, No Write...

Hi Blog,
It's been much too long since I settled myself in your arms. It's not that I haven't had anything to say or that big things haven't been happening. But I guess, I was doing my best to sort through those things without having to do the messy work on the interwebs. But tonight I think I just may have words to splatter upon the soft glow of your screen. I'm not sure that there's any sort of cohesion for this post. So my suggestion is to hold tight and try not to get too dizzy from my transitions.

I'm turning 30 in a month. A MONTH! Geez. I have this very specific memory of dancing around my room at ten singing at the top of my lungs to Tina Turner and thinking about how far away my twenties seemed. And now, here I am about to abandon them. I can't believe it. I find that I'm holding a very mixed bag of emotions, because I like my emotions nice and tidy I've decided to do my best to sort them out. So I'm about to bestow upon you the first of two lists. Tonight I'm going to list our twenty things I learned in my twenties. You're going to have to wait a couple weeks for my list of "30 hopes and wishes my 30's!"

20 in my 20's:

20. My twenties taught me that adventure doesn't look like it does in the movies. I learned that adventure isn't just taking an epic road trip with your friends or flying off to Paris to stop the love of your life before they get married. Adventure can be quiet decisions. Adventure can be sticking it out in a relationship that's headed south. It can be getting lunch with a friend who needs you or even getting a dog. In my twenties, my greatest adventure was enrolling at SPU to finish my undergrad. Getting my Bachelors began the wildest adventure my twenties would ever see.

19. Good friends give as much as they take. This was a hard lesson to learn and I didn't figure it out until I was already well into the twenties. But somewhere around twenty-four or twenty-five I realized that the people who love me deeply, completely, and unconditionally were offering me something. The friends that are forever didn't expect me to do or be anything that I wasn't. Thank God for them.

18. My parents aren't perfect, but that doesn't mean they're horrible either. In my "growing up" years I thought my mom and dad hung the moon. I believed they were superhuman parents who had zero flaws and existed solely to love and provide for me. My teens became a time where I thought my parents were annoying and very, very uncool. But in my twenties I began to see "mom" and "dad" as "Jenny" and "Mark." I realized that they made mistakes, took chances, and sometimes fell flat on their face. But they also loved me desperately. They provided a much needed safety net and they encouraged me when it felt like the world was just a little too cold. Turns out my mom and dad are superheroes, but they fall into the "flawed" hero category.

17. I don't look good in the color grey. I don't know why it took me so long to come to terms with this. But I finally set aside all notions that I could pull off "grey."

16. Not all dreams come true. This particular lesson stung pretty badly when I realized it. I'm such a dreamer. Since I was a little girl I would spend hours in my head, dreaming up the great, big, shiny future I would live. One day I'd imagine myself living in New York writing wildly popular novels, another day I'd be a pop star or anchoring the update desk on SNL. In Jr. High I told all my friends my great, big dream was to win an Oscar. I think those dreams are wonderful and sweet. I think they helped shape the woman I am today. I also think they're incredibly unrealistic. Not all dreams come true, and sometimes the dreams we hold onto can make us miss the life we are actually living.

15. Living simply is my favorite way to live. My twenties taught me that I'm not someone who needs to buy a big house and fill it with "stuff." There's nothing inherently wrong with "stuff." But in my twenties I learned that for Chelsea, the best life is one where I'm not weighed down. My best life involves a passport, a pup, and a phone (so I can call those loved ones whenever I want and google directions).

14. People won't be able to guess what I'm thinking. I've wasted so much time being angry at my friends and family when they let me down. 90% of those times were because I didn't speak up about a need I had. Oh gosh, thank the Lord Almighty that I've finally realized the only way to get my needs met is to speak up about them.

13. My music collection is made infinitely better because of 90's hip hop. Prior to my twenties my music collection was mostly country, pop, 80's anything, classic rock, and a smattering of weirdly, dark alternative. But in my twenties I discovered the joys of Sir-Mix-A-Lot, The Roots, Coolio, Lauryn Hill, Jay-Z, and of course Notorious BIG. Thank you 20's for opening my eyes!

12. My decisions have consequences and sometimes those consequences are bigger than I thought they'd be. This lesson was kind of a double-edged sword. On the one hand sometimes those consequences are great, like I decide to go off-roading with the Hellinga brothers on a whim and have one of the best weekends of my life. But sometimes those consequences are bad and have serious ripple effects, like I decide to lie about something and really hurt someone I love. My 20's taught me that the decisions I make (big and small) come with consequences, so I should do my best to choose carefully.

11. I come with unique gifts, talents, and quirks that no one else has. My twenties helped me to see that I don't want to be a cut-out of what Hollywood or society thinks an "interesting woman" looks like. I'm just me. I'm the me that makes up songs, loves to cook, and can preach the Word like it's going out of style. I'm the me that's weird, funny, and sings at the top of her lungs in the car. Yes, there are plenty of things about myself that need softening or extracting all together. But overall I'm a pretty badass, awesome woman- my twenties taught me that.

10. Heartache is unavoidable, even if you don't put yourself out there. I spent so much of my teens and twenties hiding from romance because I was convinced no one would ever want me. I believed with every fiber of my being that I was one of those "she's like my sister" girls (side note: MEN: THIS IS NOT A COMPLIMENT). So I didn't speak up when I like a boy. I didn't put myself out there, because I figured if i wasn't playing the game I couldn't get thrown out of it. I figured if I didn't hold out my heart, no one could break it. This, sadly was not true. Hearts are just too fragile to go a lifetime without pain or aches. In my twenties I learned that it's better to go big and go home, than to stay home and eat ice cream (this is solid advice and should be embroidered on a pillow).

9. Having friends of all ages, from a variety of backgrounds, with diverse beliefs is the only way to really, truly live. In my 20's I started to see that if ALL of my friends were locked in a room together for 24 hours they would get in a lot of fights. There would be blood between the democrats and republicans. The USC fans would attack the UCLA fans, and I'm positive that my seminary friends would offend someone. This is the best. As soon as I was able to see that diversity made my life richer I worked to collect even more variety in my friends. I am made better by the wide range of voices that speak into who I am.

8. A sad song and a little bit of wallow is necessary sometimes. I do not understand the whole "stiff, upper lip" theory. There are times when I need a good cry, my journal, and a Tori Amos song. Wait, scratch that. I don't like enough Tori Amos music to use her as my example. New try: There are times when I need a good cry, my journal, and an Eric Clapton song. Wallowing is ok. I don't have to plaster a smile on my face and fake it till I make it. Throwing the covers over my head and refusing to face the day is a perfectly acceptable response to sadness and grief.

7. There are days when wallowing is self-indulgent and unacceptable. I know that it seems #7 is in conflict with #8, but trust me on this one. My twenties also taught me that there are times when I need to shake it off. Part of living on this planet with other people is learning that there are times when it is not about me and what I need. I don't have to say every, single thing that crosses my mind (such a hard lesson to learn). I don't have to get my "me" time. If I'm going to be a real person, a person who loves others and contributes to this world we live in than I accept that there are times when I will have to give from an empty place.

6. I love the outdoors. This lesson kind of threw me. I discovered in my teens that I'm a lover of architecture, museums, and big cities. But in my twenties I learned that I also love long walks, open spaces, and camping. This world is full of beautiful sunsets and breathtaking vistas. As it turns out, I'm someone who wants to see said vistas. Shocking.

6. When I'm angry I need space to figure out why. Living with me is not easy, just ask my current roomies Cassie and Bingley. Actually for that matter just ask any of the people who have ever lived with me, I think my dad ended up writing a dissertation on the difficulty of living with me. Prior to my 20's I thought that I had to dig my heels into every fight, yell whenever I was mad, and that leaving the room meant I was a hater of resolution. But my twenties taught me that I am someone who needs space when I get mad, so I can figure out why I am mad. This doesn't mean that I'm bad at conflict, it doesn't mean that I am incapable of offering an apology or changing my mind. It simply means that my brain needs an hour or two (or sometimes a whole evening) to sort itself out.

5. I'm a dog person. Go peruse my Instagram and this lesson will need no further explanation.

4. My favorite person to talk to on the phone is my brother. My brother is funny. He's "fall on the floor, pee your pants" funny. But he is at his comedic best on the phone. I love to listen to him tell me how he's keeping up with the Kardashians or the latest way he scared his wife by hiding in the bathroom. Thanks twenties for teaching me that I can be friends with my baby bro.

3. Growing up does not mean I have to reject my childhood. I had one hell of an amazing childhood. I had friends who are still in my life, great teachers, an awesome family, and a church that loved me with it all it had. I can grow up to be a mature adult and I don't have to assume that means the good stuff I was raised with loses it's power. If anything, that "good stuff" is a big reason why I am a self-sufficient, confident adult. My testimony may not have the "wow" factor of some, but it's bright and shiny in the best ways.

2. Loving someone is harder than I thought. In my twenties I worked with students and there were a couple of them who stole my heart (you know who you are). I wanted to be there for them in the way that pastors, friends, and family had been there for me. But when you commit to loving someone- to really love them, it asks something of you. Telling students that they can call you at 3am if they need to means you have to answer the phone at 3am. Being a steady force in someone's life means that you have to keep showing up even when they disappoint you or say something dumb. Mostly my twenties taught me that love is more about quiet humility than it's about flash.

1. The biggest lesson that I learned in my twenties was that I can trust myself. The 20's seemed to pound out the little voice in my head that told me I couldn't trust me. I learned that I have valuable instincts and that when I believe in myself there really isn't any mountain I can't climb (gross, that sentence should come with a motivational poster)! I know my voice now and I trust it enough to follow it.