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What do you want from me?

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“What do you want from me?” The question eeeks out of my brain quicker than I can stop it with better judgement. It’s not a harsh, angry tone—just a sense of exasperation as I sigh and mark an email unread, because I don’t know what to do with it today.  I got a card this weekend from my former supervisor in India, a dear friend. In it was a heart-shaped magnet that said underneath, “I love India.” But that bottom section had been broken off in transit, leaving only the heart left. I immediately felt all the feels about that, because isn’t that how it all feels? My heart still holds India so dearly, but that love that tied me to it with a calling and purpose and hopes of acclimating and belonging there… that was shattered as God both called me to stay and, after my term, to leave without a vision for returning. Without a vision for much of anything, really. Some of that vision, of course, has been filled in. I know I’m right where he wants me right now. I love my job (even...
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An Identity Crisis

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“I don’t know how to love Jesus without this church.” —her voice came static-y through the marco polo message. And I sat up straighter; tears came to my eyes; she called it more feeling than truth but I felt the truth in it, the truth of it. Because I’ve known it too. I’ve just said it differently: “I don’t know how to follow Jesus without a place to follow him to.” "I don't know how to follow Jesus without India." *** When I was in India, and all hell broke loose, I felt lost. I felt troubled. I was crying all the time. And writing all. the. time. Because writing was my escape, my place to go when the feelings were too much and I needed them out of my head and into words that I didn’t necessarily have to understand or share with someone else. Writing was my safe place. And most of my writing happened outside, on a balcony where I could physically get out of myself.  When I started to feel disconnected, when I started to cry about everything, when I thought ...
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Lie Versus Truth

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Last week, I wrestled with anxiety. All week long. Day after day it was haunting me, trying to squash hopes and dreams, keeping me distracted and dismayed. Until a friend heard this phrase on repeat, “I am a crazy person!” And she asked me, with a knowing, slightly sly smile,  “What does God want you to rename that?” So I did what any self-respecting writer does. As my computer was being worked on by our IT department, I grabbed some post-it notes and started writing. Here’s the transcript: “I am a crazy person.”  What is God calling you to rename that?  (i.e.— dramatic => depth; desperation => hope) Crazy => unique     processing “I am processing.” It may feel crazy, but it’s not. Reality = processing through the feels.  Reality = you are an emotional, uniquely so, being who can and does often  THRIVE IN THIS EXACT SPOT ROOTS GO DEEPER IN THE PROCESS HOPE GROWS STRONGER FAITH GRIPS TIGHTER, fu...
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