When 2016 began, I didn't intend to take a year off writing. But I did. As each month folded in on itself, I simply lost the will to fight my mounting writer's block.
The year 2015 had been difficult, ushering unexpected changes into the path I thought I was meant to be walking. Plans faded. Foundations crumbled. Relationships snapped under the pressure of truth. And as 2016 began, I found my thoughts so confused there seemed to be no words that could make sense out of them.
I've written before about disorientation. I just didn't expect it to come so severely into my life once again from such a surprising direction. But it did, and lacking answers to my mind-numbing questions, I found myself unable to write.
Monday, October 19, 2015
My nineteen-year-old eyes widened as I listened, speechless. How could my fiancé excuse his dishonesty like that? How could he think that way? He was a Christian. We read the Bible together. I trusted him.
How could he lie to me?
In the aftermath of my teenage betrayal, I was baptized into adulthood in a pool of tears. It felt shocking and terrible, but it was only the beginning. Months and then years began to normalize the experience. Best friends stab you in the back. Boyfriends are never who they appear to be. Pastors let you down. Churches are full of hypocrites. I felt like the psalmist lamenting in Psalm 14:2-3, "The Lord looks down from heaven on the children of man, to see if there are any who understand, who seek after God. They have all turned aside; together they have become corrupt; there is none who does good, not even one."
Eventually, cynicism eclipsed joy as I began to see life as a game of survival. There was only one rule: Trust no one.
Read more at Boundless.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Love is a tree that shimmers verdant light on those who rest in its green shade. It is safety and rest. Love is the home we always long for, even when we sit in our living rooms, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Sometimes, love finds us. We open our closet doors one morning to discover Narnia in the spring. We nestle our toes into the cool grass and lean our heads back against the rough of bark. Like the fabled Mary, we doze beside sweet Afton’s bank -- fearless. Until we wake up in the waste land, alone and haunted by taunting memories.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
If you watched a movie about a guy who wanted a Volvo and worked for years to get it, you wouldn't cry at the end when he drove off the lot, testing the windshield wipers. You wouldn't tell your friends you saw a beautiful movie or go home and put a record on to think about the story you'd seen. The truth is, you wouldn't remember that movie a week later, except you'd feel robbed and want your money back. Nobody cries at the end of a movie about a guy who wants a Volvo.
But we spend years living those stories, and expect our lives to feel meaningful. The truth is, if what we choose to do with our lives won't make a story meaningful, it won't make life meaningful either. ~ Donald Miller
I have a large stack of books that I planned to read this summer. As I finished up my spring-quarter finals in early June, I anticipated warm, humid, lazy afternoons spent sprawled on the couch reading books of my own choosing. I rationalized several unplanned purchases from Amazon, including Making Room, Notes from a Blue Bike, and Glittering Vices. I even developed a reading plan to actually finish The New Testament and the People of God, which I had hoped to read last year. But as always, my plans and what happens are two very different realities.
Between my server job and, well, my server job, I've really only made progress on one of my summer reads: Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. While I wish I had time to read more from my summer-book-stack, I don't regret making time for Miller. His blunt and down-to-earth reflections always bring me back to reality, to the real world where God's love and our lives intersect. The subtitle of A Million Miles is "How I Learned to Live a Better Story," and as a 30-year-old still suffering from a quarter-life-crisis hangover, Miller's encouragement toward meaning couldn't have come at a better time.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Some weeks we focused on traditional mission fields of Africa, Asia and South America. We talked about poverty, hunger and oppression. We discussed lack of education, ignorance and crime. Perhaps we could send food and other resources? Maybe we could become overseas teachers? They need us.
Occasionally, we would acknowledge the needs of the Western world. We talked about the growing secularization of Europe and Oceania. How sad, we thought, that so many ancient cathedrals sit empty, that fewer and fewer attend church. We spoke about possible missionary trips to England or France. They need us.
These were natural activities for a college missions club in the United States. We had always been told that the world needed us. Those without democracy need our freedom and style of government. Those in ignorance need our educational system. Those who are hungry need our agricultural knowledge. Those who are poor need to be taught our conception of free enterprise. The sick need our medicine. Even those who believe need to be instructed by our theological expertise. They need us.
And we Americans have been willing to share our wealth of property, knowledge and spiritual tradition. Of the 400,000 international Christian missionaries in 2010, 1 in 3 were sent from the U.S.
Thinking back to my college days, it is ironic that we spent so little time discussing the country that receives more international missionaries than any other. In 2010, there were 32,400 missionaries to the U.S., surpassing any other country by 12,000.
Read more at Boundless.