katie rose writes

Tomorrow. Tomorrow marks one year since the travel day to end all travel days: the day I began my journey back to this place, wide-eye & expectant, swallowing fast the tears that came in greater waves than I imagined they would, on that first flight to Newark and then again as I watched Inside Out and we descended into Delhi. That was just the beginning of all the tears I would blink back over the next several months as things spiraled our of control and depression came so close until all hell broke loose over my soul, screaming for something more than all the hurt and pain and disappointment that I felt. Today, unlike last year, I’m not blinking back those tears (although having an eye infection that flares into flames of hellfire in my eyes at the first sign of tears…that doesn’t help this crier very much). I know I need them and I embrace them. I may even watch Inside Out tomorrow just to have some time with them again. Yeah, I cannot help but embrace them because some

from December 2015-- Most of [Jesus’] ministry was performed in the towns and cities by the seashore,  but He loved the hills more and at nightfall would frequently seclude Himself in their peaceful heights. [In the same way], every life that desires to be strong must have its “Most Holy Place” (Ex. 26.33) into which only God enters. — Streams in the Desert The haze of an unexpected afternoon thunderstorm began to settle in over our city, so, after more research on Bangkok—anticipation growing greater every day—I gathered up myself and my computer and settled on my now cold covered balcony. And I wrote. The thunder rolled and so did my hands across the keys. I began penning a story, wrapping words around the beauty of that place and the stories of those we encountered. I still have many more words to write, but that is what this balcony is for, these spaces of silence and solitude, these white documents that somehow spark both work & rest in my heart. Thes

I am a first-responder-friend.  A friend who always wants to makes the first move, send the first text, be there when the others disappear. It’s just in my heart to want to be there, perhaps because I spent so many years without having anyone be there, without having anyone to be there for,  without letting anyone be there for me .   But it creates an imbalance in my heart, a precarious place where I tend to think “I always am the one doing this first or being there always…” And it’s draining. It’s hard. And I feel like I’m on a balance beam, struggling to stay on top of it, every text or hug or coffee date feeling slightly routine, a balancing act: Send the text, get the coffee, listen. Love, and love well. Yet, I love it. I really do. It feeds me to listen, it is a huge part of how I take care of myself—I make time for this passion of mine, just like I make time for writing or reading or traveling. I make it a priority.  But I struggle, sometimes, to receive love. I get tir

God’s people were given a resting place,  a land that they could call their own. He gave them victory after victory over their enemies, and led them into the land to rest from all the striving that slavery and war had brought them. But they soon were restless. They looked at surrounding nations and the idols they worshipped. They wanted to join. And so they did. Soon, these places permeated their land. “High places” where idols were raised and knees were bowed. Even Jerusalem became a high place, as they exchanged truth for lies, putting their hope in pride instead of God, in people and in princes instead of in God.  They’ve defiled the land. Everything is messed up. But they don’t see it. They think they are okay. Their identity as the people of God is enough, they claim, even though their hearts aren’t in that relationship anymore. But God wants more than lip service that in one sentence defies Him and in the next defines them as His.  God wants their hearts back.  And He

I wrote over 10,000 words (not including journaling) while traveling last week, and I officially can no longer shake the shocking thought: I want to be a writer.  More shocking, the next thought slides up in line: I am a writer. And, so, here are some of those words that I wrote last week, an anthology of memories: *** On Traveling: Ever since my first overseas experience, I have loved traveling. The long flights (excluding the inevitable sleepless tossing and turning and oh-my-goodness-the-pain- backaches), stuffy layovers that usually consist in me walking around the terminal over and over and over again, and the feeling of wanderlust that will not be quenched no matter how many frequent flyer miles I rack up... I love it.  But my favorite part, which doesn't surprise me, is the food. First of all, let the record show—I love plane meals. Yes, I just admitted that. I love the square, never-know-what-you're-gonna-get, microwaved meals. That doesn't mea