Work. Work. Work.

This truth arrived in my mailbox today:

In the midst of God continually changing our hearts and molding us to be more like Him, He also wants us to learn to rest in His sovereignty. Too often, we neglect to view our relationship with Him as restful and rather 'work work work' toward what we think He's called us to do. Let us not labor in vain for something that He's already set in motion.

Fishing

If you give a man a fish . . .
You probably know "the rest of the story" . . . he'll eat for a day.
Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime.
It's a great idea- easy to get your head around.
Might even make you want to give fishing lessons.

But who owns the pond?
The same guy who runs the city. And he decides who comes on his property.
He decides who fishes in his pond.
Suddenly the idea gets infinitely more complicated.

Oppression can be defined as not having power, while others do.
Oppression is only one of the causes of poverty.

Last night I sat in a borrowed building in East Nashville and learned about "reconciling diversity". At first listen, this rubbed me the wrong way.
Diversity, in my opinion is one of our strengths.
After a year without any diversity, I have grown to crave it, to feel a very real need for it.
But I listened.
Diversity is also what keeps us apart.

Racial and economic diversity.
"The City Church of East Nashville exists to reconcile the diversity of East Nashville by enjoying and displaying Jesus Christ through worship, teaching, and city-focused communities to, for, and from Nashville to the nations of the world."

It's a tall order.
But then again, I know of no other church with that particular aim.

It took me the whole service, sitting in the YCAP building, spying the first lit candle of advent, to reconcile within myself why we were all there.

The pastor offered four causes of poverty and simutaneously reminded us that the son of God was born into "abject poverty". Not just meeting the government qualifications for "poverty level" for a family of three with a $16,000 annual income, but more like the folks who live within the neighborhood, making about $4,300 for an entire year.

This is what Christ was born into.
A Jewish baby, born in a dung stall in the Middle East.
It's hard to get my American mind wrapped around it.
A rough equivalent of delivering your firstborn in the trash dumpster out back of the very building we sat in.
This is not how we like to think of the first Christmas.
In all honesty, this is not how we like to think of Christ.

But that was precisely the point. We don't like to think about it.
We don't like to think about what makes us uncomfortable- what separates us.

Poverty comes from a lack of knowledge, not having the resources of knowledge to break the cycle. It comes from oppression- when those in positions of influence fail to use that power in appropriate ways. It comes from personal sin-our ability to set ourselves back- our undeniable need for deliverance from ourselves. Poverty also comes from a lack of material things- it doesn't matter if we secure two jobs for income if we don't have the transportion to get there.

I don't write this because I have stumbled upon some grand conclusion or new solution.
I write to invite and involve you in the asking, in the addressing of what is true and what is truly uncomfortable.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

I'm not a big fan of dogs, as my family can attest.
My brother has a dog, a Ridgeback, I believe. A good dog, as far as dogs go.
I used to like dogs, begged my parents for a puppy, the whole nine yards.
But something happened along the way of growing up and now I find myself on the other side of the fence, shifting my weight to stay out of range of roaming tongues and dirty paws.

So it is with great resignation that I recognize my utter likeness to the creatures.
Unfortunately it isn't their undying devotion or zest for life with which I identify, but their eagerness to bolt.

Running in my sister's neighborhood today I passed an owner, with dog in training.
He held the dog close and repeated, "Stay. Stay. Stay."
I smiled as I ran by, but didn't speak a word, determined not to disturb the process.
It's hard to stay; this I know.
I found myself wanting to help the poor dog obey, since I too felt his readiness to take off.

I suppose it's just where I am these days- with the Master close at side, methodically repeating, "Stay. Stay. Stay."
And it's hard to stay, it's a discipline to do so.
But I vaguely remember something about God disciplining those he loves. So I'll do my best to stay, to watch the world running by and sit, obediently, at the Master's feet.

The Dukes of Hazard and Humility

I was driving to meet up with a good friend of mine, her whole family actually.
We had arranged to meet in the parking lot of a guitar store, at a shopping plaza.

I've never been a good driver. Fair at best.
I don't think I typically make my passengers particularly uneasy or anything, but neither do I give off an air of tremendous confidence and control.

And so it was that music cranked, heater blowing I peeled into Guitar Center parking lot and circled around looking for their family vehicle.

Aha- there they were.

Now I know you aren't supposed to pull straight through a parking spot. I think it might be one of those mini-laws you study when cramming for your driving test. However, on this cold November night, already ten minutes behind schedule, I saw no need for concern.

Plenty of space to get through- a speedy assessment and Whala!

Dukes of Hazard. I was airborn.

For some unknown reason, unlike every other row of parking spaces in the entire lot, there was a two and a half foot cement median between these parking spots and I had just propelled myself over it, directly in front of my friend, her husband and their two children who now sat, doubled over in laughter, scarcely able to catch their breath.

The car is fine. Only my ego was wounded.
Humility is a good thing. However it comes.

Love

Love, with flesh and blood on it- so we can touch it, feel it.
It makes a difference.
Incarnational Grace.
Jesus did it, and now, he asks us to do the same.

Change of Plans

I showed up this morning for a women’s retreat, but somewhere between brewing a pot of Breakfast Blend and House Decaf it became apparent that I needed to be in the Choir Room and not the Bride’s Room. I ended up in a meeting about Southern Sudan.

This isn’t surprising considering the twists and turns my life has taken over the past several years. Recently returning from a year in Japan, extensive travel in Southeast Asia and two months on the Hill in Washington D.C., I find myself changed, left with questions that can no longer be ignored.

Perhaps this is how I ended up in the St. B’s Choir Room, surrounded by representatives from the Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army (SPLA), Austin Peay State University (APSU), doctors studying HIV/AIDS, St. John’s and St. B’s Episcopal churches, the Jieng, Acoli and Nuba communities, the South Sudan Youth Connection, the Lost Boys Association and many more. I was honored to be invited. All I brought to the table was pen and paper and an open heart.

Apparently there have been 22 years of ongoing war in Sudan. The current Comprehensive Peace Agreement between the North and South is fragile at best. This meeting took place to announce an upcoming conference regarding the emergence of a new political party, the Sudanese Peoples Liberation Movement (SPLM). The new president of Southern Sudan, Mr. Salva Kiir Mayaardit, will come to APSU in Clarksville, TN in March for the SPLM Post Conflict National Development Conference of North America. A government is newly established. A political party is in the making. These are exciting times, pivotal ones.

I learned that USAID is contributing on a national level, and President Kiir has recently visited Washington D.C. with the very folks at this meeting, as well as with the State Department. On a local level, APSU is planning how to train and equip the Sudanese in Nashville to return to leadership roles in their home country.

Everything about the morning intrigued me, from the Washington D.C. visits with President Kiir, to stories of ground-up glass in food and poisoned bottled water. This was not a movie. This needed no Hollywood elaboration. This was reality and I was sitting in the midst of it.

So I sat down with a few questions and rose hours later with dozens more. Most importantly, how had I been at St. B’s all these years without ever attending a meeting like this and now how can I become more involved?

A Tube of Toothpaste

I stocked up on toothpaste in Thailand nearly a year ago.
Good toothpaste is hard to come by in parts of southeast Asia, but I managed a couple of tubes of what I firmly believe to be Colgate original flavor.
I can't read Thai, but I feel confident this is the same product.

This afternoon, as I spied the floor of my new "home", I noticed my Thai toothpaste scattered between a half-unpacked suitcase and a National Geographic entitled "Africa, Whatever You Thought, Think Again".
I smiled.
It couldn't have been a more accurate representation of my present life.

I've recently returned to Nashville, TN, home of country music, Pancake Pantry and Radnor Lake. But more importantly, home to me.
I've come home to pursue my passion and as of yet, no one has faulted me for that.
It sounds noble, to follow one's dreams, but it feels largely irresponsible.

My dream is of writing.
My interest is the world.

I suppose I should narrow my scope a bit, but I am in no real hurry to do so.
I am at a time when April feels like long-term planning and limiting myself to a "Top 5" list of "countries-to-visit" is challenging at best.

Fresh from Washington I am grasping to hold on to a more global perspective.
I recently attended a press meeting with a blogger from South Dakota.
Apparently, the entire state's population is about 750,000, less than the one million in the city of Nashville, less than the one million who died in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda.
It's hard to know just how all these facts fit together and even harder to know how my daily life must change because of them.
My heart and mind are spinning like a top, trying to keep the balance of near and far.
I struggle to know just how to walk in the midst of it.

And so I find myself here again, living in the questions and sharing some of them with you.
Many of you have asked to know "the stuff you don't put in the email".
Tonight, I'd wager a guess they are one in the same.

Going Home

Going home.
First semester, freshman year of college- our assignment: write an essay on Home.
I waxed eloquently on the nature of a temporal home and the need for One Constant.
Little did I know how that truth would carry me.

These are my last few days up here- final moments- tying up loose ends.
I struggle to complete the ever-present stack of data-entry that piles up on my Intern desk and gave my last Capitol tour today.

My bed is stripped and my drawers empty. My suitcases stand at the foot of my bed.
I’ll be leaving soon.
Everywhere my life speaks of the change of a season. The golden leaves fall off the trees in torrents these days. At last.

Folks came in droves to see the Indian Summer, the fall foliage- New England in Autumn. I fear they were all disappointed, as things have just now reached their peak of beauty. For a while there I thought “Indian Summer” was another term for “freezing cold” or bore a close resemblance to a “snipe hunt”. But at last, the trees have turned, the weather warmed and running in shorts once more, I find that this is what it was all about.

It’s hard to leave- but exciting to be going home.
I have to remind myself that there are gorgeous trees in Nashville and moments to be had there as well. I must not need too much reminding, as I can’t help but smile when I speak of where I am going.

I’m going home- to all that is familiar . . . to chase a dream wildly uncharted.
Of all that I have done these past years and all the places I have traveled none seemed so full of potential as this one- home.

The Comforter

I gave my comforter away just now, complete with matching rug.
Gave it to Rebekah, an angel that has inspired and encouraged me and made me laugh in the midst of life's looming indecisions.
She was the precise recipient for what I can only describe as God's provision.

TMH, Thompson Markward Hall, (the women's dorm in which I currently reside), provides a basic bed-covering- a rough equivalent to what you'd find at a budget hotel.
It does the job.

My first week here, my devoted friend Lea ventured forth with me to Target and there, lo and behold, a matching rug and comforter found their way off the clearance shelf and into my shopping cart. They have brought me much delight and warmth these last months as a daily reminder of God's lavished love- providing more than is required- more than we could ask or imagine.

Since Wednesday the problem of "What to do with my comforter and rug?" has plagued me. And then tonight- in an instant- resolution.

She came to my room to record her email address and I sent her away with a rug and a comforter. I instucted her to do the same, when she goes.

No one stays at TMH for too long; they can't- they don't allow it.
It's a great place to live, but it is more of a way-station than anything.
Not unlike my comforter- supplied for such a time as this and no more.

I've passed it along now- and my room seems sparse once more.
It's nearing time to go and the room depicts it.

The West Wing

CJ was nowhere to be found, and rightly so.
We were touring the actual West Wing of the White House, no Hollywood reproduction for us.

I'm still pinching myself to believe it, but it's true.
On this surreal Sunday afternoon several friends and I were able to tour what I can only describe as a serene and respectful place- the West Wing of the White House.

I was struck by the peaceful feel of standing on the White House lawn, or rather, just next to it.
Onlookers paused on Pennsylvania Avenue and peered through the fence at us.
We marveled at being on the other side.

The Oval Office, the Rose Garden, the Press Pool, we saw it all and then some, right down to the Presidential M&Ms.

I have heard that this administration strives to restore the highest degree of dignity and integrity to the White House, the West Wing in particular.
I'd say they are succeeding royally.

Every swallow on the grounds is accounted for.
Every tree perfectly placed, the lawn neatly manicured.
The same holds true inside as well.
Dozens of fragrant roses adorn the desks and coffee tables.
Well- lit paintings tell the stories of our past.
Candid photos line the walls, capturing the moments of our present.

Nothing about our experience was unplanned or haphazard, and the intentionality put us all at ease.
There is no higher authority, no greater security than is felt walking through the halls of the West Wing of the White House, home to the leader of the free world.
We found ourselves not only delighted but unexpectedly at rest.

There is a painting in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, depicting George Washington resigning his military commission to ensure this country would be a democracy and not a dictatorship.
Great strides have been made throughout our nation's young history to promote and maintain that democracy.
All this I was born into:
A gift, at great expense to the giver.
Freedom, at the highest price.

Many things happen in Washington because of who you know.
The same can be said for our visit to the White House.
We had done nothing extraordinary to be admitted in, but we got to go because of who we knew.
Someone with the necessary authority made a way for us to enter and invited us to do so.
And we stood grateful and amazed.

Would that I could live each day like this, aware of the magnitude of the invitation, given at the highest price, from the greatest Authority.

Mystery

There are some things which require no explanation.
It dies in the explaining.
It is art.
It is beauty.
It is mystery.

The Pearl Lady

I've been to Beijing- but I've never seen anything quite like this.
Hundreds, if not thousands of women, well-dressed, cups of Starbucks in hand, flocked from near and far- to witness for themselves the phenomenon of The Pearl Lady.

She comes from China once a year with a stash of pearls so grand no woman can resist.
Set up in a townhouse flanked by the turning leaves of fall trees, photos of presidents line the walls and strings of pearls cover the tables.
Prices were a bit higher this year than last- at least one woman flew up from the deep south with a long list- an order from her friends and family back home- conversations laced the counters as thickly as the jewelry.

Women lined up in the kitchen sharing mirrors and swapping advice on size, shape, coloring and style. "Oh, those look lovely on you!" was heard more than once to be sure.

Pleasantries and English were probably what surprised me most.
Certainly the prices were higher, but the company was also notably different.
"Pardon me."
"Excuse me I'm just going to slip around you."
"Oh, no problem, please do!"

Not at all the sort of shopping I had done in Beijing, on a warm and dusty day at the flea market.
But a cultural experience without a doubt.
One not to be missed, and I am glad to say I didn't.
I have the pearls to prove it.

Two Weeks Notice

Just before falling into bed, I stop to consider the day's accomplishments:
Declining the opportunity of a lifetime, to pursue the greatest desires of my heart.

It was a defining moment today, to walk out of a Congressional office and boldly step into an unchartered future.

Two weeks from today I will be home.
I'll be living once again in Nashville, TN and savoring all my favorite things in life, family, friends, community and of course, Radnor Lake.

I'll also be risking like I've never risked before- investigating my passions and seeing where that takes me.

Although exhaustion has set in, I feared I might forget the flavor of this momentous day and it is something I truly hope to remember always.
So I have paused to record a fleeting moment- residing between relief and anticipation, between saddness and delight.
These are not my everyday occurances; but they are today's occurances and so I find them worth recording.

And this much I hope to be true: Delight yourself also in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart- words that linger in the middle of my Bible, on a card given years ago by my father.

Questions??? Options!!!

Years ago on a spring break missions trip my very wise campus minister spoke profound truth to me.
I still have the well-worn notebook paper with his two word advice for my life:
Questions??? Options!!!

Get comfortable living in the questions and considering all the options.

It isn't always necessary that we attain the answers we desire,
but I think it essential that we ask the questions and examine the options.

A good friend recently reminded me of her father's keen insight:
There are lots of good things out there. But they aren't all for you.

These thoughts and more race through my mind this evening in my less than 24 hour decision-making process.
Job offers have been coming in and the clock is ticking to determine the outcome.
Few times, if ever, in my life have I faced such uniquely honoring difficulty.
What began as a grand but temporary adventure has turned into a potentially more permanent position and I find myself at a crossroads.

I take solace in the fact that tomorrow night, no matter the decisions made, I will be celebrating at a local Mexican restaurant with the friends who have faithfully journeyed with me through this time.

And so, with lots of good thinking under my belt and the sincere wish for a good night's sleep I find myself at the same place I started:

My soul finds rest in God alone . . .

Trust in him at all times, O People;
Pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.

Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him.