Return {velvet ashes link up}

To the one who stayed, and now must return,

dear friend, 

dear self,

You didn't want to stay. Everything within you was ready to go. You were ready. Everything but your bags was packed: your heart, your calling, your identity—stowed away in the treasure boxes you found them in at first. Reburied like sand shuffled under waves of uncertainty, doubt, and the existential lie: did God really say?

But you stayed. And even though sometimes you waffle and wonder, you know He asked you to. Every time you thought you heard conflicting words: stay, leave, you were really only hearing yourself. Until you could get away in the silence and the May stormy skies and the big white-down comforter to keep you warm. Then you could be still. Then you were silent. Then He spoke. 

His words were crystal clear: I'm going to redeem all of it. 

And He did, didn't He?

I know you're feeling conflicted, confused over all these emotions: ready to leave, wanting to stay. A far, far cry from the words of yesterday. And last year. And tomorrow. Every day is different, so take it as it comes. Wait on Him to continually redeem the rest. 

Your two-year term ends on July 19th. You’re flying back with a week-long stopover in London with a friend who will also be ‘returning’ soon, and landing back in your hometown on the 28th of July. Today, you woke up to greet the 2 month mark, officially. 3 weeks of that time will be spent in Thailand at a conference, so I know that these next 3.5 weeks are really it. Which is unreal. I know you’re really bad at processing these big things until you're knee deep in them (i.e., when you wake up on Saturday, July 29th, in a bed, a room, a house, a town, you no longer recognize or are familiar with). 

Your dad will probably bring coffee into your room that morning, which will be wonderful and familiar to hug him again (and again and again). But, still, you’re so afraid of the transition. 

For the past 7 years, you’ve thought you were called here forever. But the past 2 shattered you, shattered that calling, and the only thing God has kept constant in all the change the shattering brought is writing—words and blogs and community. You’re already recognizing how difficult that is to explain—when your entire identity has been rooted in living and operating overseas, in this specific country that you struggled to thrive in. 

Remember that the word “calling” often gets misunderstood for the word “season.” 

Everything is changing; you are changing; the season is changing. But God is not. His identity is sure. His calling on your life is foremost about Belovedness & Mercy (Romans 11.29 in context). And that’s not changing. 

Your calling to Him is not changing. Even as your season to this place is.

Your identity as beloved is not changing. Even as this home, people, and routine is.

Your identity as mercy-recepient is not changing. Even as you wrestle with its truth.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whichever season He calls you to next—these two things will remain, when other gifts and callings feel broken and not enough: 

You are Beloved. 

You have received mercy.

When other seasons fail to nourish and settle you:

You are Beloved.

You have received mercy.

When fruit fails and days drain you:

You are Beloved.

You have received mercy.

When you feel dry and unable to sing of His love for you:

You are Beloved.

You have received mercy.

Beloved, 

mercied,

Let those truths hold you up. Let them be the buoy on the horizon, calling you to the shore. He’s there. He’s making breakfast. It’s just another mundane morning with Him, for Him. Follow Him there. Jump out of the boat and swim if you need to. 

He’s gonna restore you and remind you of who you are…and who you are not. That second part may be painful, but, beloved—let Him prune you. You know what pruning does. You know the abundance it brings. You’ve seen it come in India. You’ll see it come beneath your feet again, soon. 

Return, oh beloved one, to the One whom your soul loves.

Return, oh prisoners of hope, to His refuge.

Return, oh my soul, to the messy mercy that will bring you home.