What do you want from me?

“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 whe

An Identity Crisis

“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

Lie Versus Truth

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, fuller IN THIS PLACE IN THIS E