tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48912209710473288122024-02-18T21:52:53.362-08:00writing aloudfinding words to express the depth of life and death in ChristDaniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.comBlogger150125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-27421935006988375522013-11-11T11:24:00.001-08:002013-11-11T11:24:23.370-08:00Jenna: Wrestling Through What Doesn't Seem Fair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Today I’m wrestling with the
goodness and justice of God. There is a girl who lives in my house. Her name is
Jenna. She is a dear sister and friend. She makes me laugh. She loves to paint.
She drinks large amounts of Dr. Pepper. She’s often quiet, yet when she speaks
her voice is strong and determined. And every time I witness a glimpse of the
way she walks with Y’shua I am struck with awe, my heart is challenged, it
makes me want to reevaluate the things I stoop to complain about, to press
myself closer to the Lord.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Jenna’s story is not mine to
tell, but let’s just say her childhood has not been easy. And yet despite
everything she’s endured she looks to Y’shua with dogged resilience and
declares it all good because it brought her to the Lord. He plucked her out of
a type of hell and gave her a home and a surrogate family. Her journey of
healing has been long and full of hard work, but she has kept coming back to
the Lord over and over, trusting His surgical care of the tenderest places in
her heart. In the midst of this journey she has been slammed with more pain.
The loss of a sister. The loss of a mother. The hospitalization of an aunt. She
has experienced more grief and trauma at twenty-three than most people ever
have to face in a lifetime. And now the war of cancer rages within her cells.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
This morning the doctors told
her the cancer has taken over her entire body. So she faces a choice. Continue
treatment in hopes of reducing the tumors or stop treatment so she can come
home and feel better in what time there is while praying for a miracle. It
doesn’t seem just or fair. I look at her life and cry out, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Y’shua where are you? Why aren’t you moving, storming in to cleanse her
physical cells of the long years of abuse and wipe out disease? Hasn’t she
suffered enough?</i> Fair would be for me to have cancer. I look at my life, my
family, the doors to opportunities God has flung open for me, the good man who
has begun the process of tying his life to mine, and I think it’d be more than
fair for the cancer to rage inside my own body. I’ll take the next shot. Give
Jenna a reprieve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But I don’t have the power to
make that choice. So I shed tears and cry out in prayer for God to let Jenna
live, to come through on the promises He’s given her. She has dreams of
ministering to abused girls, of traveling and speaking, of writing children’s
stories for children in impoverished countries. And I try to sort the justice
of God out in my brain. But I can’t. And I don’t think I’m meant to. I can’t
reason this one out in my soul. I have to trust the Spirit. All I know to do is
stand upon the fact that God is good. I don’t understand how exactly in this
situation, but I have to trust that it’s so. If I don't I won't be able to face whatever comes next. And I know it’s what Jenna would
tell me to do. She’d say it’s all good because it comes from the Father,
because it brought her to this point of knowing Him. She looks at her sickness
and believes she has to go through this because it will help her minister to
people in the hospital who need to be touched by Y’shua. I’ve seen her talk to
Him—curled up in a chair with her blanket—crying and expressing her fears one
moment, yet lifting her voice in gratitude to Him the next. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No matter what it feels like, it’s good</i>.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s good. It’s all good.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-43303314335383603502013-10-29T11:02:00.002-07:002013-10-29T11:02:41.298-07:00The Fight for Grateful Surrender<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Yesterday I began my day reading
about gratitude in Ann Voskamp’s book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One
Thousand Gifts</i>. She writes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lament is
a cry of belief in a good God, a God who has His ear to our hearts, a God who
transfigures the ugly into beauty. Complaint is the bitter howl of unbelief in
any benevolent God in this moment, a distrust in the love-beat of the Father’s
heart.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
At one point she quotes from
Habakkuk 3:18-19: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Though the fig tree
should not blossom and there be no fruit on the vines, though the yield of the
olive should fail and the fields produce no food, though the flock should be
cut off from the fold and there be no cattle in stalls, yet I will exult in the
Lord, I will rejoice in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength,
and He has made my feet like hind’s feet, and makes me walk in high places.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Later in the afternoon I was sitting
outside with Y’shua reading and listening. I told Him I wanted His River of Life
within me to be so full it is like a plump gusher, filling a room with His
presence anywhere I go. He told me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if
you want that, then get down and surrender, not just one knee but both, and
raise your hands in gratitude</i>. And I did. I told Him He could have whatever
it takes to make me like that. I saw a bare patch of grass that looked like a
giant footprint heading towards an un-mown field. I felt the Spirit tingling
through my body and Y’shua whispered, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
will make a way. Follow Me into uncharted territories</i>. It was a sweet time
and my heart was full as I walked back to the house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
So how was it that forty minutes
later during dinner in the kitchen my heart was grumbling with complaint,
indignant about an extra meeting we had to go to that would take two hours out
of the evening, indignant about the fact that I was going from there to spend
the night with two other girls on the farm to give a friend the night off and
my day had been so full I hadn’t found time to pack, indignant that I had no
choice in what to do with my time, indignant over the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you must</i> that made me feel more like a
micromanaged child than a mature contributing adult? So I showed up at the
meeting in a roomful of people who I’m supposed to be reading the Word with and
praying and my heart was resentful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But somewhere in the midst of
that time the Lord made me remember how recently that sweet time in the
afternoon with Him had been. He reminded me of the proclamation I had made that
He could have it all. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Surrender. </i>And
suddenly I can see how this is all just a ploy from the enemy to steal the
gratitude and surrender out of my heart. Of course this evening would be hard.
The enemy of my soul is mad. I scribble in my journal—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How the enemy fights hard to steal my joy, to plant a grumbling seed in
my heart, to tempt me to pick up my self-rights and indignation at them being
ignored. Y’shua fight for me. Help me ward off this darkness, to choose life
and surrender, obedience and joy.</i> Because it is a choice. Ann Voskamp states,
“God does not give rights but imparts
responsibilities—response-abilities—inviting us to respond to His love-gifts.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And it’s a love-gift to be on
this farm. No matter how difficult it gets I know that. It’s a daily battle here—gratitude.
In some respects it’s so easy because the Spirit of God is walking with me and,
well, there’s just so many things about God and His goodness to be grateful
for. And in other respects it’s not so easy because the days are long and I’m
tired and I constantly lose or have to lay down the small pieces of personal
space or time I think I have. But in the end it is a choice. Last night I
fought and when a song began to play at the end I made myself stand and raise
my hands and belt out the words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bless the Lord O my soul, O my soul<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Worship
His holy name<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sing
like never before, O my soul<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
worship His holy name.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-85462565952643633502013-10-15T14:54:00.000-07:002013-10-15T14:54:08.254-07:00John 14:16-17<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Y’shua has me on a journey of
searching the scriptures for an understanding of the Holy Spirit. I keep being
surprised by places the Spirit is referenced that I’ve never noticed before.
The following is one verse I’ve landed on recently, followed by my paraphrase
of it after I picked it apart and studied it in the Strong’s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
John 14:16-17</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
“I
will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, that He may be with
you forever; that is the Spirit of truth whom the world cannot receive, because
it does not see Him or know Him, but you know Him because He abides with you
and will be in you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have determined (and therefore it will happen) to beseech and
interrogate the Father, and He will commit to bestow and bring forth in you an
Intercessor, Consoler, and Advocate who will come between you and any attack,
that He may be joined together with you in companionship forever; that is the
unconcealed breath of God whom the world with its orderly arrangements and
decorations cannot accept, be amazed by, or get a hold of, because it does not
look closely or gaze with wide-open eyes upon Him. But you are aware of the
Spirit and gaze with wide-open eyes as at something remarkable because He
dwells and tarries, staying in one place with you, creating a union,
resemblance, and possession of you (you are His) in a fixed position (He will
not leave you) and relation of rest.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-29411961015545435022013-10-14T11:05:00.000-07:002013-10-14T12:02:48.205-07:00That Thing Called Dating<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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From the time I was a child I
remember dating being established as something taboo. It wasn’t healthy. It
wasn’t godly. It wasn’t something I was going to do. And it wasn’t something I
ever did… until two months ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I’m in a relationship. I’m
dating. I have a boyfriend. I’m twenty-six and it’s taken me nearly two months to
let those words roll easily off my tongue, and it’s not because my boyfriend,
Aaron, is not a good man. He is. A very good man. It’s because when Aaron said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want to pursue you</i>, I ran smack up
against a wall—a towering, fortified wall labeled DATING.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I’m an adult. Rationally I knew
that dating wasn’t wrong, that I was free to make whatever choice I wanted to
make, that I didn’t even need anyone’s permission. Yet emotionally, something
about it still felt off, still felt taboo. Aaron waited for days without
hearing from me while I tried to find the edges of this wall or a crack I could
chisel my way through. So many times in the past two months he’s been gracious
and patient, honoring me and my need for space while still telling me I’m worth
the wait. A lesser man probably would’ve given up and walked away, and I wouldn’t
have blamed him. But he hasn’t, and this is what I’ve discovered thus far.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
That wall was a wall of
self-protection. From a young age it built itself up around me like a fortress,
promising me safety, but the truth was it was a false protector. It kept me
boxed in and isolated. It whispered lies that said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love isn’t safe</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s
easier to do everything on your own</i>. It made me afraid of becoming an
inconvenience. It convinced me I liked being independent and that with my strong
personality and vision I would be too much for anyone to handle. It told me
love may be for other people but it wasn’t for me. But God’s been smashing
through those lies and slowly carrying away the rubble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
This wall was reinforced by my
own pride. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Other girls outside the wall
date, but I’m not like them</i>. One brick stacked on top of the lies. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t want to be like them, to sink down
to their level</i>. Slather on the mortar. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Girls
that need boyfriends are needy and insecure</i>. Plunk goes another brick. Like
the Pharisees I added rules beyond God’s original intent. I got caught up in a
religious spirit. I became judgmental and critical and decided what manner of
living was holier than another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But here’s the truth: I was
wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Truth: All these beliefs were
just my rationalization for why that wall should be there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Truth: I was scared of being
vulnerable, of tearing that wall down and being exposed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Truth: With the wall gone I’m
not exposed because Y’shua is my strong tower, my protector.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Truth: Even if I offer my heart
to another (any person in any kind of relationship), Y’shua still holds it in
His hands.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I’m not all the way there. I’m
still hesitant. It can still feel scary to keep moving forward. I often make
Aaron wait on me while I figure out if I’m ready. But I’m also learning to step
out in faith and take risks, to open up my heart and be known bit-by-bit. And
what I’m discovering is that dating—that shallow, flirtatious,
emotionally-driven pastime of our culture, the kind that is motivated by
self-seeking gratification and bails at the first sign of trouble, the kind I
was afraid of taking part in—that is nothing like what Aaron and I have chosen.
We use the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dating</i> because it’s
easier than having to explain, but we’re not really dating. Maybe we’re
courting, although that word can carry a wide range of connotations too. In
some ways whatever we use as a label doesn’t matter. We are pursuing
relationship intentionally. But it’s not like what I feared. I haven’t lost
myself in the midst of it; I’ve become myself more fully. I haven’t been
distracted from the Lord; I’ve been pressed more fully towards Him, compelled
to trust and surrender in new ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Our relationship is long
distance, so most of our time together is spent over the phone and writing
letters. And while that has it’s inconveniences and won’t be ideal for long, I
do like the fact that it forces us to be intentional about communicating. We’re
not just caught up in activities and physical attraction. We have to hear each
other’s hearts or we have nothing to go on. But that’s a good thing. We listen
to each other and we come back, clarify, and listen some more. We discuss
values, family history, theology. We open the Word and pray, continually
surrendering ourselves back to Y’shua, asking Him to orchestrate and lead,
because nothing about our relationship has been conventional. But then again I
don’t like convention. In a way, even in the midst of God rooting out my pride
and pushing me to join the ranks of the daters, He still surprises me. He takes
something conventional and rewrites it into something that’s not. He puts
together a story that I couldn’t write or even know to ask for. But it’s a good
story, because everything that the Father gives is good. So without knowing the
end I’m grateful. I’m grateful for Aaron, for his friendship and for his
more-than-friendship, for being known by him, for the way that dating has been
healing for my heart, and for the way he tells me I’m worth it. I just might be
starting to believe it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-55208269229127241822013-09-14T10:47:00.003-07:002013-09-14T10:47:41.163-07:00Holy Spirit Beginnings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I was in high school and early
college, Yeshua pursued my heart and I came to know Him as a jealous
Bridegroom. In the past few years I’ve been in a season of healing and
restoration of brokenness within my soul. In the midst of these years I’ve
found myself caught up into the unconditional love and arms of God the Father.
Now I sense it’s the Holy Spirit’s time to draw me out, sweep me up into His
wild playfulness, teach me to hear and respond to the quiet promptings of His
voice. So in the snatches of time I can steal here and there I’ve launched into
searching the Scriptures for the Holy Spirit. I’m hungry to learn. The first
verse I began with was Genesis 1:2-3. After delving into the Strong’s and
picking the main words apart this is the paraphrase I landed on:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The earth was lying waste, a desolation, a worthless wilderness, an
undistinguishable ruin, utterly empty. Light was withheld from the surface of
the abyss, keeping it in obscurity. Yet the Holy Spirit, the Breath of God, was
brooding over the surface of the waters, completely relaxed, fluttering ,
moving, shaking with what He was about to do. Then God said, “Let there be
illumination,” and there was light all at once in all its forms—lightning,
clarity, happiness, sunrise—and morning came.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
This is so much what the Spirit
does, not just with the earth at creation, but now in each one of our hearts.
He sees what is hidden, broken, lying in ruin. Where others see a worthless
waste, he envisions potential and beauty. He is not overwhelmed by the
fractured filth, by the emptiness of our being. He breathes and light comes in
our spirits. What was dead comes alive. What was dark is illuminated. Morning
dawns. Healing spreads. Life begins.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-72571798282158577462013-09-05T06:49:00.000-07:002013-09-05T06:49:01.851-07:00Pitchforkfuls of Grace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
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So today was hot, and for chores
I was assigned to empty a dump truck load of mulch into the garden using a
pitchfork and a wheelbarrow. Scoop, dump, scoop, dump, until my muscles ached.
I was covered in sweat, and dust from the mulch stuck to my skin. One of my
housemates was helping, but she didn’t have as much stamina, and I ended up
doing most of the brunt work. But somewhere in the midst of working I decided I
wasn’t going to complain. It wasn’t going to change what I had to do. So
between pitchforkfuls I started singing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I will enter His gates with thanksgiving in my heart<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I will enter</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Stab. Lift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His courts with praise.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Dump.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I will say this is the day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Stab.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the Lord<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Lift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has made. I will rejoice for He has made me glad</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And another pitchforkful slid
into the wheelbarrow. Gratitude is a choice, and it changes things. I began to
take pleasure in the work. I realized I had things to be grateful for, like the
chance to work with my hands, to feel the satisfied ache of muscles capable of
rising to the challenge of a dump truck full of mulch. I wasn’t in school. I
was out on a farm, getting dirty, and I’m convinced that God created the human
spirit to enjoy labor in this way, that when we sit in offices behind computers
all our lives we miss something of what it means to be human. Using a pitchfork
made me feel alive, hearty, legit. And there was beauty even in the dirt and
sweat, evidence that says this day is real, not fake, that I’m living it, and
that I’m grateful to be alive, to be healthy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is the day the Lord has made. </i>I had a thousand moments when I
could’ve complained in the next couple hours when the sun grew hotter, when I
had to sit in the shade gulping water and catching my breath. But I kept
pulling my heart back to gratitude. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
will rejoice and be glad in it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Now, sitting at the end of it, I
can say it’s been a great day. The shower after working was amazing, lunch
tasted wonderful. I was on my feet in the kitchen all afternoon canning dilly
beans, jalapeno jelly, and salsa, and have enjoyed listening to the pop of the
jar lids as they seal into place. The stovetop is cooling, the dishes are
washed. Falling asleep is going to feel so deserved. A day well-lived,
well-worked. A day full of grace to accept good things from Yeshua, in whatever
form they take—even mulch and pitchforks.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-49930149933486304822013-08-28T17:11:00.000-07:002013-08-28T17:11:06.463-07:00Last Bedroom on the Right<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
So yesterday one of the women in
charge of my internship told us this year is going to be a year of stretching,
that however much we thought it was going to challenge us, it’s going to do so
even more. She said it’s not her intent to make us uncomfortable, but it is her
intent to help us become Christ-like, which means discomfort is going to be
part of the package.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
It made me think about how I
probably landed in the hardest bedroom in my house. First it’s the only bedroom
in the house with two extra beds in it, which means whenever there are extra
visitors our room occupancy grows from two to four, something which could be in
flux for a while. Secondly, I don’t deal well with drama, and God gave me a
roommate that screams at bugs and spends a half hour trying to work up the
courage to dip herself into the pond when we go swimming. Drama Queen with a
capital D. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I know the truth, that she is a
daughter of the King, that she’s in desperate need of extravagant love and the
chance to mature in a safe environment, one her parents probably never
provided. I know in a lot of ways she doesn’t know better. She’s never had any
other way of living modeled out for her. I know she can’t change all at once,
and if I think hard I can recognize small ways she’s already changing. However,
knowing the truth still doesn’t change the fact that sometimes she’s hard to
live with. On the way to the pond this afternoon I heard her say that she’s
never heard me complain about anything, and I wanted to turn around and say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">well why don’t you give it a try?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">But I didn’t. Instead I’m writing this and becoming very much aware of
my own sense of pride—pride that I don’t dwell on the negative, pride that I’m
not as shallow as she is, as paranoid, as insecure. If I’m brutally honest, I’d
have to admit that I’ve thought I’m better than she is, which is an untruth of
the highest degree. Because the real truth is that I’m only the way I am because
of the abundant grace of God. We’re both on a journey, and it just looks very
different for both of us right now even though our paths are intersecting to
use the same dresser and bathroom. And my immediate journey is that God is
going to use her to strip me down again, to reveal another layer of selfishness
in my heart and ask me to surrender. And that’s a gracious thing for Him to do,
because I want to be a part of her story, to live in a way that brings her life
and not death, to be compassionate and show her there’s a different way to view
life than the way she’s been taught. Abba, fill my heart every morning with
eyes to see her as you see her and the grace to surrender my will to your
Spirit, because I know, if let on its own, my stubborn heart is going to kick
and buck for its right to freedom and a pasture all its own.</span><!--EndFragment-->
</div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-50102819883857333812013-08-27T10:48:00.003-07:002013-08-27T10:48:21.133-07:00B is for Binding and Loosing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Most commonly in the Christian
world, the idea of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">binding</i> is
associated with immobilizing the demonic. Demons are bound and the Spirit of
God is loosed. However, in reality the kingdom works in reverse. Let me
explain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
There is one definition of the
word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bind</i> that can mean “a temporary
tying up,” but this is not a long-term solution. If you study Yeshua and His
treatment of the demonic within the gospels, He doesn’t bind. He is more concerned
with permanently destroying the works of the devil rather than entangling them
up in knots from which they can later work themselves free. The real definition
of the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bind</i> is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to tie together, knit, be in bonds; fasten
or wind together; to obligate yourself</i>. In other words, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">take
two things and make them as one</b></i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
The root of the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loose</i> does not carry the assumed
connotations of setting free in the sense of being released from confinement.
Rather it means to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cast away like a
filthy garment, to destroy it, to dance upon it until it melts away</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
If this is true, the last thing
we want to do is bind demons to ourselves and send the Holy Spirit packing. So
the second part of our daily liturgy is to bind ourselves to Yeshua, to ask Him
to weave our spirits into His, to make us one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord, I thank You that my </i>spirit<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
is bound to the Holy Spirit. In the name of Yeshua, I bind my </i>mind<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to the mind of Christ. I bind my </i>will<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to the will of God. I bind my </i>emotions<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to the heart of my Father. I bind my </i>imagination<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to God’s imagination. I bind my </i>physical
body<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to excellent health and prosperity
that I might fulfill the destiny God has for me.</i> In other words we ask that
we can think as Yeshua thinks, feel what He feels, envision what He envisions,
draw our hearts into alignment with His will.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Then we cast away the things
designed to hinder our hearts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeshua, I
loose all</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fear, doubt, unbelief,
shame, guilt, intimidation, a spirit of religion and performance, stronghold
thinking and behaviors, distractions… </i>the list can go on. You fill in the
blank. I love to think of throwing them out into a muddy street in the middle
of a rainstorm, of dancing on them until they are swallowed up into the earth
while the rain pours down on my upturned face to wash away any evidence of the
effects they were ever there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
In the context of answering the
Pharisees by what power He cast out demons, Yeshua describes, “When a strong
man, fully armed, guards his own house, his possessions are undisturbed. But
when someone stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away
from him all his armor on which he had relied and distributes his plunder. He
who is not with Me is against Me; and he who does not gather with Me,
scatters.” (Luke 11: 21-23)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
The strong man is a spirit of self-protection.
He is guarding his own home, or in spiritual terms, his own heart. But we
weren’t designed to be our own protectors. It only causes our hearts and minds
to shut down, to build protective walls, to shut people out or lash out in
fear, something I have experienced before. But in this passage someone stronger
attacks and overpowers the strongman. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Attack</i>
is a faulty translation because in the original language it means simply to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arrive</i>. The mere presence of Yeshua, the
More Valiant One, overpowers the strongman, no battle needed. He casts the
strongman’s armor of self-protection away. He scatters it. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He looses</b>. Then to prevent the enemy from coming back into a
cleanly swept house and causing more damage than before, we <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bind ourselves to Yeshua</b>, we fill the
home with His presence, with His truth. We rebuild with good things so there is
no room for the broken to come back and make its home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-82587024027417933752013-08-21T06:40:00.003-07:002013-08-21T06:40:59.463-07:00A is for Attention<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
On the farm we practice
something called the ABCs, a type of liturgy we speak to God and over each
other (usually in pairs) every morning when we gather, an invitation to open
our spirits fully to God and close them to anything else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
A is for Attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the name of Yeshua (Jesus), I call my spirit to attention. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Spirit is the best part of me,
the part created to commune with God, the part stamped with His image. We are
not bodies temporarily inhabited by spirit. We are spirits temporarily making
use of bodies on loan. So spirit wake up within me and live to your fullest
potential.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spirit rise up and take your rightful place, seated with Christ in the
heavenly places.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I am a daughter of the King and
fellow heir with Christ. I belong in the throne room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christ is in the driver’s seat.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I relinquish control of my
agenda for the day. I want God to lead, to determine what is important, to
guide my thoughts, my actions, my interactions. He will see and hear things I
will not. I want to be attune to Him, to hear and see those things too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soul and body get in the
backseat; submit to my spirit and the Holy Spirit.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
The soul is made up of the mind,
will, and emotions. Without the spirit my soul is left to earthly reasoning, striving
to be good out of sheer willpower rather than grace. Living from the soul is
living from the flesh. So we ask our will, our thoughts, and our emotions to be
subject to the guidance and governing of the Spirit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Then we speak blessing over one
another. I bless you with revelations of the Father’s love. With joy welling up
from gratitude. With peace that surpasses all worldly understanding. I bless
you to know you are a daughter of the King, that you are filled with grace and
beauty, that you have an inheritance in the heavenly places… every morning the
blessings are different, but they fill our hearts with reminders of truth, with
the space to claim our God-given identities and step into the day with
confidence.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-41105266586037753382013-08-15T11:55:00.000-07:002013-08-15T11:55:00.027-07:00Orientation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My life is not my own, but I have been bought with a price.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have left the United States as I know it and entered a
mission field tucked away in a corner of countryside in Missouri. My time here
is barely twenty-four hours old, and I already feel both more at home and more
stretched than I anticipated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have nearly mastered the names of my new immediate family.
Twelve women, living in one home. What that means is that my life is not my
own, my room is not my own, my food is not my own. Everything but my bed and
personal belongings are to be shared. Even my time is not my own. Living in
this close of a proximity with so many people means schedules and structure are
required to maintain order. Laundry happens on a schedule. Meal times happen on
a schedule. Chore charts happen on a schedule. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first instinct was to baulk. I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived
on my own a long time. I’m used to buying my own groceries, having places for
my books, going to bed without worrying when the light gets turned out,
showering without checking with four others whether or not they need the
bathroom. Many of the girls are much younger than me. It’s like being thrown
back a decade into the days of camp or at least my freshman year of college with
rules and regulations, designated lights out, and cleaning charts. I expected a
house of seven with one roommate. What I received was twelve and a roommate
both young and in need of a lot of healing, with two other beds in our room
that could be filled at any time. I have to walk down the road to get internet.
Not ideal. But I have a choice. As I walked the property this morning I sensed
God saying this is a chance to die to self. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Philippians 2 Paul instructs us to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind
regard one another as more important than yourselves; do not merely look out
for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others</i>. Here
are those interests very tangibly in front of my face. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have this attitude in yourselves which is also in Christ Jesus</i>. He
laid aside His rights, his divinity. He emptied Himself and walked towards a
cross with open hands and an open heart. Lord teach me to walk as you walked.
Paul states later that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even if I am being
poured out as a drink offering upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, I
rejoice and share my joy with your all</i>. Lord, fill my heart with joy as I
learn to pour myself out. Lose myself to find you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year may very well stretch me more than India. What
heat and spicy food, complicated travel, dust and sweat did not draw out of me,
this little place in Missouri may. This year, like India, I will get up every
morning with a desperate need for God to meet me, but that is the best place to be. I will face a choice to
choose gratitude over selfishness. This year I will realize what has always
been true. I am not my own, but I have been bought with a price. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ann Voskamp, in her book<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
One Thousand Gifts,</i> writes about how joy is derived from gratitude. The
more I have the eyes to see the good things God is giving rather than the
things I do not have, the more my heart will find its capacity for joy. So this
morning I rose and I chose to be grateful for these things:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A beautiful sunrise and cool morning to walk and pray</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time to linger over the Word and journal out my thoughts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pleasure of not having to dig in a suitcase for the
first time in weeks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Milk to go on my cereal</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A houseful of people instantly becoming my community</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The delighted eyes of one of the women supervising me. she
is so glad I’m here</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teaching that makes sense to both my heart and my spirit</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sense that God has so much to bring alive in my heart</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-21033047622479949632012-08-18T08:29:00.000-07:002012-08-18T08:29:19.814-07:00Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s raining. After months of drought and weeks of 100
degree heat I’m sitting on my neighbor’s porch wrapped in a shawl and it’s
raining. Cool, steady drops in a gentle, falling symphony. It’s as if I can
feel the earth sigh through its scorched covering of grass and open its pores
wide to receive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rain reminds me to be grateful. Water is a life-giving
thing, but one we can’t control. It comes as a gift, God’s way of letting us
continue to survive. He is good to us. After months of scorching heat comes
rain for my thirsty heart. After a year of flooding and being overwhelmed with
more than I can handle he gives reprieve and time to dry and find my feet
steady beneath me once again. Everything in the season of his timing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Always I am grateful for His goodness. So often now it pours
out of me in tears while I wonder at the gift of being chosen and carried and
taught and invited into knowing this God who loves me so inexplicably. And this
morning this goodness and gratitude come in the form of rain.</div>
</div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-1919063783328450442012-02-11T14:54:00.001-08:002012-02-11T14:54:21.728-08:00InjusticeThe images of what greed can do fill the inches of my computer screen—white men willing to kill hundreds to find a little white rock, others willing to turn a blind eye to bloodshed to make a profit. Countries are war torn, children are forced to become murderers. Millions are homeless, refugees, starving, separated from their families. I can read in a book a thousand facts about poverty, slavery, abuse. I can watch a small Asian girl walk down the street with a white man in Thailand, knowing that before the night is over she will splay her legs to a man who paid another man some money, who doesn’t care that if her skin was a different shade she could be his daughter, or perhaps even his daughter’s daughter. <br /><br />I can weep at injustice. I can pound my fists in rage. But it doesn’t change that fact that I will never really understand. At the end of the day, forever and always, I will always be white. American. Born within the safety of four sturdy walls, within my father’s salary, within health care, within education, within fifty broad states, within two oceans that separate me from real brutality, starvation, torture. I can travel across the ocean and step foot on soils soaked with the blood of what should never be, but my passport will always carry me back to those four sturdy walls, will always insulate me from what it means to be dark or untouchable or sold or cast off or eliminated without anyone to notice. I will close my computer, fold my book, stow away my passport. I will buy food in refrigerated aisles of supercenters bigger than an Indian village. I will drive a car without anyone else inside it. I will sleep in my own apartment, with three rooms of space for only me, with a mattress, and ten pairs of shoes. And most days I won’t think twice about any of it.<br /><br />When I am sorrowful, my pittance of grief is a token, a child’s pebble in the face of solid mountains of injustice. I may long not to be white and ignorant and naïve, but to fully understand I would have to be born as one of them. And if I were born as one of them I would long to be within these four sturdy, American walls—if I could even think to imagine them. Two worlds. So diverse it would seem they could never exist within the same planet—yet somehow they do. Some of us work or buy our way into living like royalty, and some of us are born into rock quarries to live and die working off a five-dollar debt our grandfather owed. <br /><br />So many things I will never, never understand. Never. But God forgive me if I fail to hurl my pebble as hard and ferociously as my feeble arm can at the rocky face of injustice. God help me.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-17775743107460005712011-12-14T18:43:00.000-08:002011-12-14T18:47:37.397-08:00Less-than-idealMy sister came to visit me this weekend. I looked forward to it all week, having her presence with me. Then Sunday morning she woke up sick, and everything I had envisioned for the day—bringing her with me to church, venturing downtown to the bookshop, slipping into the ice cream shop, laughing together over a bowl of popcorn—couldn’t happen.<br /><br />It strikes me that very few things turn out the way we envision them. I can’t be mad at my sister. Hardly even disappointed really. She can’t help it. I am compelled with compassion instead. So I join her for bits of the afternoon on the couch and we watch a movie. It’s not an intimate, joyful sense of being together, heads bent over common intrigue and experience. It’s more of a complicit agitation, me holding her feet in my lap while she tosses and turns on the other side of the couch. Me sitting quietly with my book on the next couch, just to be in the room with her, while she slips into another fitful sleep.<br /><br />But we are together.<br /><br />It strikes me that community is rarely what one expects. I tend to envision ideal relationships, as if I were an artist capable of crafting another’s response to who I am. It takes two to make a friendship which means there will always be factors of the unknown. Though what I am left with is never quite what I imagined, perhaps the point isn’t the trip to the bookstore, or the shared ice cream cone. The point is being together. The point is staying when I’d rather not be in a room that could make me sick, when it seems easier to slip out and find someone else. But that is just the moment when I can’t—when I shouldn’t—because my presence is not just a pleasure; it’s a need.<br /><br />I’m not very often good at community. Sometimes I tell myself it is easier to be alone because I fear the sickness of being wounded. But the first step to staying in this place of relationship and forcing myself to engage is to realize that my ideals are just ideals. When it feels different than I anticipated, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed; it just means I forgot to take into account those unknown factors I can’t control. It means that God has something bigger in mind. Something messier. Something, I’m trusting, in it’s time, more beautiful.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-8595115440005882952011-09-05T20:07:00.000-07:002011-09-05T20:12:20.745-07:00The People's City MissionThe men at the People’s City Mission are like the children in the slums of India. They come in need, but they mumble and complain, turn their noses up at what is offered, try to weasel their way into getting something more. I look at their grown-up forms and see the eyes of the small brown children in the slums with their manipulative puppy-dog eyes: <span style="font-style:italic;">Please, teacher. One more teacher.</span><br /><br />I begin to think that people hard on their luck will be docile and grateful to receive whatever is free. I thought that once about children as they played with legos in India. I know better than to think that now. I am tempted to judge and say it’s wrong for grown men to complain or sneak extra food when others have gone out of their way to give them what is placed in their hands. I am tempted to think that they should be content. But then I think of the way I also try to get everything I can out of the dollars I’ve been given, how I look for sales, or advertisements with the word ‘free’, or fail to argue when my mother slips gift cards into my purse or offers to let me bring my laundry home. I too try to manipulate the system. I think it’s a part of human nature, the will to survive. I look at myself and call it frugality. I look at these hungry men and call it ungratefulness. The difference is a dainty word called hypocrisy. <br /><br />The writer in me has to stop and wonder at their stories. Why are each of them here tonight? Where are their families, their children, their wives? Did they ever have any? How have they been wronged, abused, discarded, blamed? Perhaps they’ve done something to deserve being here, accepting handouts because they cannot feed themselves. Perhaps. But maybe they haven’t in the human sense of fairness and equality. Maybe they got dealt a bad hand. And maybe I’ve sinned just as much as them. Maybe there is nothing separating me for a mission food line than the grace of God and shepherding of people who care.<br /><br />I can be so quick to judge, but tonight I want to hold my tongue and ask God to show me the difference between what I see and what he understands.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-82076744424281790002011-07-16T18:03:00.000-07:002011-07-16T18:04:49.815-07:00NightmareThere are a lot of things people find to be afraid of: pain, intruders, poverty, abandonment, dying. I know that I don’t quite think like most people when I don’t feel fear when I should, or at least when other people think I should. These things don’t frighten me. I’m told boarding a plane to the other side of the world—alone—where I have no previous relationship on foreign soil would be something most people fear. I forget to bat an eye.<br /><br />So many times I look at the world I’m surrounded by and I see plastic. Pasted happiness, makeshift fortresses. A culture that spends its life making a name for itself without realizing it could all crack so easily. Or melt. Or blow to smithereens.<br /><br />When fear makes me cringe, when it breathes down my neck and sends shivers down my spine, when it brings hot tears to my eyes until there is nothing left to cry—this is why:<br /><br />I’m afraid of forgetting that the walls are plastic. I’m afraid of rhythms and normalcy messing with my vision, lulling me to sleep like a child in its cradle until I forget that I was made for something else outside the plastic. I’m afraid of being comfortable, afraid of wasting my time on trivialities when there is something more important to be done. I’m afraid of loving my life more than I love my God, afraid of reaching that point without even realizing it. <br /><br />This would be my nightmare, my daymare, the horror film of my life. It keeps me praying for grace, pinching myself to make sure I’m awake, asking for vision to see beyond the plastic. God, don’t ever let me come close to normal.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-35070653561792452152011-07-07T22:14:00.000-07:002011-07-07T22:15:01.278-07:00Because God is bigger...Sometimes you step into something and you don’t realize how much it’s going to cost you. But when that moment of exhaustion and overwhelmed and frustration, that moment when you wonder if it’s all worth it, that moment when you want to throw up your hands and run away to hide in a comfy couch with a good book in a place where no one else can reach you to ask you to do one more thing—that is the moment when you must remember that God knew how much this was going to cost in the moment when he brought you into it, even though you didn’t. That is the moment when you trust him, with every raw, aching muscle of your brain and heart. You trust that he has something beautiful to pull out of the middle of all this work, that there is some indelible reason why he’s moving in this way that pushes and prods and presses the clay of your soul. You cling to his vision with tenacity that comes from a grace bigger than yourself. You cling even though it’s a vision you can’t quite see. You surrender your own desires for what you would have wanted when you think of yourself, and you trust that the vision God is working is better than your own. So you get up morning after morning and you do what needs to be done. And you choose joy. Because joy is a choice. Just like obedience.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-74735101398895878232011-07-06T19:03:00.000-07:002011-07-06T19:08:20.158-07:00A Window of TimingGod takes an incredible interest in the small details of our lives. Whoever thinks differently can argue with me till their blue in the face and I still won’t believe them. Today proves it.<br /><br />I’m moving to Lincoln next month to begin working on my masters in writing fiction. Yesterday I drove down to go apartment shopping. I’d never done this before. I didn’t really know what I was doing or the best way to go about it. Plus I was devoid of any company to serve as a sounding board for what was there to see (or the absence thereof). I lined up appointments all afternoon and raced from address to address, peeking in so many closets and bathrooms until they all started whirling around in my head.<br /><br />All that work, and at the end of the day I had only one fairly viable option, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t quite the neighborhood I wanted. So 9 o’clock at night I’m crashing at Melissa’s place and scouring craigslist for any new postings. But it was all just so God could prove that he knew what I needed, see if I would trust Him to provide.<br /><br />“Here’s one on K Street,” I said.<br /><br />K street?!<br /><br />Melissa and I looked up at each other. Then out the window. Then back at each other.<br /><br />“That’s across the street,” we said.<br /><br />So this morning I got up and called and nervously tried to distract myself while I waited to meet the landlord. I pulled some company along with me for the visit, and we invaded a girl and several guys who were supposed to be moved out but weren’t, prancing into their kitchen discussing dishwashers and electricity as they groggily stared back from couches and a bed. The place didn’t smell like smoke; it was the first thing I noticed. The second was the size. So spacious compared to others. It was the quickest tour I made, due to the awkward male occupancy, so I still have closets to discover when I move in, but it was the also the quickest decision I made.<br /><br />“I want it,” I said as we stepped back out on the front stoop. And now it’s mine. I paid a deposit that says so. So I have my own place in a neighborhood overflowing with community and Taylors where my mother won’t have to worry for my safety and I can bike to school in a few minutes. <br /><br />The crazy thing is that this was the first vacancy this building has had in over a year. The landlord had another viewing scheduled just a few hours later with a guy that said he wanted it, so if my timing had been off by just a few hours it never would’ve happened. If I had chosen to go to Lincoln another week or even just another day, I never would’ve found this place. It was definitely a God moment. What's to conclude except He cares about apartments, and neighbors, and landlords. He cares about us, and He knows how to meet our needs.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-10799202611961789672011-06-26T11:56:00.000-07:002011-06-26T11:59:05.050-07:00DullishnessYes, it has been three months, to the day, since I have blogged. <br /><br />While this fact has constantly been nagging at the back of mind (occasionally aided by the physical voices of a few loyal followers), every time I try to think of words to write, my life stares back at me like a blank page. I feel like a monstrous case of writer’s block. <br /><br />Life since India seems muted. Color is there. Life, purpose, community—all the good things of existence—swirling around in the natural ebb and flow of sun risings and settings. But less poignant. Less vibrant. Dull. <br /><br />I know there are things to write about here. It wasn’t the large things of India that drew my focus. I loved discovering small details, having the time to slow down long enough to notice the ordinary. Even now I’m probably surrounded by hundreds of miniature wonders; I’ve probably seen them so many times I’ve grown blind their existence. I’m probably walking so fast I don’t take the time to notice. Probably.<br /><br />Half the things I love about India, the Indians likely aren’t even aware of. Maybe they have my problem in reverse. So somehow, my eyes need to become a stranger in their own home.<br /><br />It’s also just a season. We all have to learn to walk with God through splendor, through pain… through boredom.<br /><br />As I was walking with my mom last week we were discussing my dullishness. I was lamenting the lack of having anything specific to process. She told me it wasn’t a bad thing not to have issues to work through. “Yes, but being healthy is boring,” I said. She laughed.<br /><br />She’s right. I should just be grateful for a healthy reprieve. I’m not sure why I’m writing all this other than the fact that I’m tired of walking through a maze of tedious social conventions and want to vent, that something of some kind needed to be written, and maybe there are others of you that can relate to the fact that life does not always feel like an adventure. <br /><br />I should it make it my goal for my next post to find something ordinary worth noticing.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-34211893883387963682011-03-26T17:26:00.001-07:002011-03-26T17:26:45.411-07:00Culture ShockFor weeks before I came home from India, I braced myself for a tidal wave of culture shock to come crashing over me and leave me in a soggy, mucky mess. The strange thing was, it never hit. Sure, I was a little dazed when I walked into Walmart and stared down aisle after aisle of products that it didn’t seem anybody really needed, but I didn’t melt into tears or get angry and race out of the store. In some ways this absence of obvious grief has been hard. <br /><br />It took me several weeks to realize that my experience with culture shock was a much more subtle affair. It creeps up on me slowly, softly, in a way that I’m not sure it’s there. I can’t put my finger on the discomfort, I only know that something is not right. Instead of tidal waves I have the gently rolling surf of the seaside. I stand on the shore as the water laps around my feet. It’s easy to withstand a wave, and then another one. But the tide rises, slowly but surely. All of a sudden I look down and wonder where all the water has come from. It’s harder to stand straight as wave after wave rushes in, first around my ankles, then around my knees. It’s easier to lose my balance.<br /><br />I’ve been babysitting my siblings this week while my parents are off on a much-needed vacation. I love my siblings, and I don’t consider it much of a burden to watch them for the week. I volunteered. But tonight, I’m stumbling for footing as I stare out to the sea. All week I’ve listened to them grumble and whine over food. I’ve watched bits and pieces go to waste here and there, seen them turn up their noses to four offered choices of leftovers for lunch. I’ve gritted my teeth against their little, self-entitled hearts.<br /><br />It’s not something so big. My siblings are good kids. They have strong values compared to others of their peers. I know they don’t purpose to be selfish and demanding. But their flesh is still strong within them, and they know nothing other than the world of Walmart super stores and refridgerators full of food. But I am haunted by the dear face of an Indian grandmother who lowered herself to ask for two dollars to buy rice to feed her family for the week. Her son hadn’t been able to find work for over a month. I see the faces of my tution students who open their hands to accept whatever snacks I bring, their cries of “thank you teacher” echoing in my ears. I remember a whole village of people that thought it a treat when we brought them eggs or milk or tea.<br /><br />I left the dinner table in tears tonight. I’m curled up in the dark in my parent’s bedroom right now, finally giving in to tears that may have been kept at bay for a little too long. Abba, teach me what to do. I don’t want to walk in judgment. I don’t want to be angry. But I also don’t know how to navigate my heart between such polarized worlds. I don’t always know how to maintain my joy in the midst of a culture that splays their sense of self-entitlement across their faces, their wardrobes, their pantries, their houses, and their cars. And as I write this I realize it’s not that I can’t live with the glut; I just can’t live without gratitude. Somewhere in the midst of all this stuff, we need to realize that it’s just stuff. If it disappears, the world won’t come crashing down.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">So help me, Abba. Show me what to do with the pain. Help me to be vulnerable in a way that invites others to consider your goodness, rather than pushing them away in my frustration.<br /></span>Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-82440374221774053712011-03-21T21:16:00.000-07:002011-03-21T21:17:11.968-07:00When friends fall in loveI’m good at weddings. I’ve worked the bridal business for a few years. I’ve been a personal attendant quite a few times (officially and unofficially). I’m an all-around gofer, seamstress, steamer, decorator, snack-maker, boutonnière pinner, dress-fluffer, tabs on the flower-girl keeper, ring-bearer entertainer, lip-gloss carrier, present deliverer, reception cleaner, and bridal sanity maintainer. When the people I love decide to join their lives with someone else, I like to show up and help make it happen. It brings me so much joy to watch a day unfold that has been so-long anticipated and longed for, cried over on couches, and fought out with God.<br /><br />But I have to confess, that when the cake is all eaten, or the leftovers pawned out on hapless souls leaving the reception, the chairs are folded, and my feet ache from dancing, I crawl into my car and give in to shedding a few a tears.<br /><br />You see the hardest thing about being single is not being single. It’s watching friends who were single move on to this place that you are not ready to follow. There’s a bit of grieving that happens in the process.<br /><br />Some of my friends are good at making friendship important after marriage. Some of them kinda disappear. But either way, things shift. And they’re supposed to. It’s a good thing, but it’s hard. I have to re-remind myself of what I know is true, that I’m content, that I don’t really want my life to be different, that the lines God has drawn for me are good. And they are. In the midst of shedding my few tears, in the midst of my heart’s voiced honesty, I remember. I resolve to cling to that remembrance—and to gratitude.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-12275249512868132572011-02-15T17:01:00.000-08:002011-02-15T17:02:38.397-08:00Home BetweenFor all you readers who have been impatiently chafing at my silence the past three weeks (however few or handfulish you may be) I am sorry. It’s been hard to find words since coming home. It’s difficult even to talk about it so that I find myself reluctant to struggle speak unless somebody takes the time to ask. What does one say? There are even mornings where I wake and wonder, was it all just a dream? Life in the West is so different from life in India it is hard to believe that I’ve lived in both, that they can coexist in the world—and my heart. Sometimes I feel like my brain stares at them as if they were two diverse puzzle pieces that appear to be from different puzzles entirely. You want me to fit these together?! it says.<br /><br />I’m not even sure if I have anything concrete to say in this post other than the fact that I’m home and fighting to redefine what life should be. I miss India. Just last night I was lying in bed thinking that it was too soft, that I wouldn’t mind my hard flat bed with grass-stained bed sheets. But I’m also finding that there is a familiarity to the choices I face each morning—the choice to be grateful, to not despise humble tasks, to walk with joy, and be honored to serve. India lingers in my heart and has changed what I see as important. Significance must still be redefined because my worth, and even my usefulness, is not determined by the tasks I complete but the position of my heart towards God and the value he speaks into my life.<br /><br />So right now I’m in a season of lingering between. India is past. Acceptance to graduate school hopefully awaits in the future. I know this time at home is just as significant as the time on either side, despite the fact that some days I wake up and wonder what I’m to do with myself. So I’m writing and quilting, helping friends with weddings, working here and there, and finding a new love of being with my family and my mom. Most of all I’m trying to keep my heart awakened to any little way God is trying to teach me something new, to nudge me with his spirit, show me places to serve. It’s different, but like all things that God brings, I know that it is also good.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-78981558967844496962011-01-21T18:32:00.000-08:002011-01-21T18:34:12.344-08:00Flight ItineraryI’m coming home. It’s going to take four days since I have the craziest, most-pieced together itinerary ever. That’s partly due to the fact that to get from India to Laos and back I chose an airline so cheap my travel agent couldn’t access their database, and partly due to the fact that Asia is predictably unpredictable and one canceled flight turned into two rebooked ones. Therefore…<br /><br />7 airports<br />6 flights<br />5 countries<br />4 days<br />3 continents<br /><br />from now I’ll be landing in Nebraska, hopefully to find an eager crowd of familiar little faces to fight for hugs all at the same time (one of the awesome features of my king-size family).Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-51166153033300360902011-01-15T20:56:00.000-08:002011-01-16T09:21:32.711-08:00Wet EyesI cry so easily now when I get overwhelmed by the goodness of God. <br /><br />I’ve been sitting on Kruses porch this morning trying to summarize thoughts about India into a two-page letter while listening to “Your Love is A Song” by Switchfoot (lyrics below). And I did it again. Cried that is. What else can I do when I stand in the face of someone so powerful and so worthy, yet someone who cares to take everything he is and tend to my heart with such gentility and patience and such stubbornness to refuse to let me remain as I am? <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Ooh, your love is a symphony<br />All around me, running through me <br />Ooh, your love is a melody<br />Underneath me, running to me<br /><br />With my eyes wide open<br />I’ve been keeping my hopes unbroken…<br /></span>Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-42440360233725955642011-01-13T22:30:00.001-08:002011-01-13T22:33:41.696-08:00A Crime So Monstrous: Face-to-face with Modern-day SlaveryI just finished reading this book by E. Benjamin Skinner, one journalist’s investigation into the existence of slavery still present in the 21st century. He travels in perhaps twelve countries posing as a merchant, factory owner, or just a westerner searching to satisfy his own contorted lusts, whatever it takes to answer the question: how easily, how quickly, how cheaply can I barter and trade for the life, labor, or sexual commodity of a human being? Answer: <span style="font-style:italic;">much too easily</span>.<br /><br />I won’t summarize the book. Read it for yourself. My question is what to do after you’ve read it. Skinner points out that the face of modern slavery is much easier to ignore than the Africans in chains on southern plantations. The face of modern slavery is hidden. If you don’t want to see it, you don’t have to. It’s the face of a prostitute who most will judge and assume she’s chosen the life she leads. It’s the face of factory workers and farmers who appear to be working for wages. It’s the face of an internationally adopted child who appears to have been rescued from destitution and brought to live in suburban America, but it’s all just a rouse; it’s really Cinderella pitted against the cruel stepmother, minus a fairy godmother or glass slipper, with an abusive brother thrown in for twisted measure. <br /><br />Why don’t they run? Why don’t they speak? Because they are beaten into submission. Because they are illiterate and ignorant of laws regarding their freedom. Because their families might die if they squeal. Because they are afraid of deportation where home might mean death. Because they are brought to believe they are worthless.<br /><br />I read their stories and I struggle with how to respond. Shouldn’t I be in tears? Shouldn’t I be screaming at injustice? And I am. Sometimes. But I can’t bawl my eyes out with every page. It takes too much emotional energy. If I fell apart at every sign of injustice I’d have to bury myself at the bottom of a tissue box and never come out. I’d be useless. <br /><br />There comes a point when I have to make a choice to say I refuse to be overwhelmed by injustice. It’s everywhere. There are more slaves today than at any other time in history. That’s a lot of evil getting its way. I’m tempted to think, what can I do in the face of so much wrong? But the moment I surrender to that thought, evil has won. So I have to fight, even if I never see visible changes from my efforts; it’s the principle of never conceding the fact that darkness has won… because it hasn’t.<br /><br />I still don’t know what it looks like from day to day. I know it means I keep my heart uncallused and hopeful. It means I staunch my ignorance, help others open their eyes. It means I pray, I petition governments, I keep sending money to pay for the schooling of a dalit child in India to prevent him from falling into the same trap. Maybe it means one day I open up my home to show broken women how to find life after hell. <br /><br />In some sense I don’t think it matters what we do, as long as we do something, as long as we keep fighting, as long as hope stays alive. I can’t fix a problem that is millions of lives deep in countries all over the world. If I think that’s my job, I better give up now. But I can find courage to face those who come across my doorstep. If I spend my entire life fighting for the life and dignity and restoration of one human heart than my existence will be worth something. And slavery, in the world of at least one human being, will die.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4891220971047328812.post-33759008803751542072011-01-12T18:17:00.000-08:002011-01-12T18:19:08.720-08:00Thoughts of HomeIt’s almost time to come home. I wasn’t ready to even think about those words a month ago, but now I’m liking the way that last one sounds in my ears—<span style="font-style:italic;">home</span>. <br /><br />Laos has been so opposite from India, but looking back I’m just starting to realize what a gift it’s been to my heart in ways I can’t fully understand. I think I’ve found my little moments of usefulness here—helping Eric in the kitchen, doing dishes for Jennie, subbing at the homeschool co-op—but if I could sum up my time here in one succinct thought it would be <span style="font-style:italic;">one great big pause.</span> India was intense, more intense than I think I was aware while I was in the midst of it. I crashed when I got here, and Kruses gave me more than enough time in the world to sleep in and think and read. They’ve let me eat with my hand at the dinner table and wear my saris and talk about all the things I love about India while my heart takes its own slow time to process and adjust and prepare to move on.<br /><br />Laos has allowed me to catch my breath before jumping into whatever race is next. So many times the fast pace of western society throws us from one thing full speed into another and our minds and hearts are forced to learn to cope and keep up whether they possess the capacity to do so or not. It makes me wonder how many things we miss because we never slow down long enough for our hearts to have time to show us what they have discovered. Laos has given me that time and I sense a deep urge to be grateful. India is pulsing so vast and multifaceted within me, I know it will take years to find all my thoughts, but I’ve gained enough distance now to articulate some of the pieces. Plus I’ve eaten enough western food and seen enough tourists to wear away half the shock-value of landing back in the United States.<br /><br />So home carries a tone of welcome and warmth, brings stirrings of anticipation. There has never been a moment when I haven’t missed home, but there have been moments when I was convinced the shock of culture would clamor so loudly I feared it could blot out the joy of being with those I love. Those fears are passing, so that I believe I can look for the faces of my family beyond security checkpoint at the airport with anticipation of everything that is warm and good and right. And then, for all of you in Nebraska, I’ll be making my rounds to collect and give the most gigantuous hugs ever.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10513309687886971552noreply@blogger.com0