Awakening

Laying words down on loose pages is a re-centering action for my hands and heart. Writing gives clarity and washes away all the muddled thoughts to where I can see what really is important in this life I'm walking through, because that's the thing, we're all just walking through towards a beautiful awakening. But, I firmly believe we're already being called to wake to the love messages of our Waker everywhere!

Days go by where all I want to do is lay on my bed and read a thought-provoking book and soak in the words of an author who leads me by the hand in ways they have been awakened. By reading I'm hoping to vicariously live their awakened journeys and yet, I have my very own beautiful awakening to experience if only I would get off my bed and see it! So, I get up and press on.

A flood is springing from long blue pipes, refreshing the ground. Sitting on the edge of the courtyard I wait with knees tucked under chin for those precious brown eyes to open. Slowly, little feet step into the light of the afternoon and hands rub the darkness away from drooping eyelids. I smile as I watch those brown eyes take in the scene of this flood in their own front yard. Thirty minutes pass and I am no longer alone, but little feet swing freely as they line the perimeter of the courtyard watching. No one is yelling, but we're mesmerized by the flooding of this yard. A flood bringing life to the earth beneath. A flood awakening my soul to be still and know the gifts in these brown swinging feet around.

Water falls from the sky and it's 6:30 am and I am out of my bed fast as I run up the steps to the roof and just stand. Drops trickle down my joyous cheeks and I am awake! Five months and the earth has been dry. Today, the earth was awakened to life once again and Jesus is alive in this beautiful awakening for He gave it. I soak it into my core far past where the rain has soaked its way into my dry skin. This is a moment of awakening. Awakening is always an option when belief is held in a personal Creator, our Elohim.

"Thank me for the conditions that are requiring you to be still...quietness and trust enhance your awareness of My Presence with you. Do not despise these simple ways of serving Me. Although you feel cut off from the activity of the world, your quiet trust makes a powerful statement in spiritual realms."

- Jesus Calling by Sarah Young

*Elohim is the Hebrew name for addressing God as personal.

Intentional Lover

"I'm dust," and thoughts swirl in my head as I listen to the oldest girls sing worship. It's Valentine's Day and sure I sprinkled some love around, but that's all it is, just a sprinkle.

A week ago I sat on the dust-sprinkled mat with village and Hope children alike and reveled in the songs sung and glanced at the bamboo tree leaves clapping in the wind mesmerized by one thought: what if I was created for this moment alone?

What if we are all created with the intention of being exactly where and who we are in this undivided moment?

So, what am I doing with my head a mess and in the clouds and every-once-in-awhile moments of actually being fully here where I was created to be? Visionary or not, my feet have got to be on the ground. And it's because I forget. I forget to acknowledge the Lover of my soul in the moment I was created for and my thanks gets put off for another unidentified time.

And even now, I sit glued to my chair and this pathetic screen looking for my answer when all I really need to do is go out there. So, I'm going. Going and counting these 128 love-hungry, dusty beings as the image of the Lover. Kissing each one goodnight and laying my head to sleep with thankfulness for an intentional Lover who created me for this moment.

Shubo bhalobasha dibosh!

Still

There are moments when my heart just hurts. When ten year-old's trip and fall scraping their legs when really their pride is hurt more than their fall. When I feel like all I do is talk and not enough loving. When Kakoli stood on the sidewalk by the garden and told me she was going to check on Baby Kenzie, who lies under that cross stuck in the ground, to see if Kenzie had gotten better and I gently told her "No, Kenzie will not be better. She is sleeping until Jesus comes again."

Grabbing hold of my arms and looking up at me, Kakoli replied with a look of desperation shading the corners of her eyes, "What if I give my life to her? Will she get better?"

Oh, my heart ached! But, this was the good news: "You know what? Jesus already did and that is why we will all get to be in heaven. So, no, Kakoli, you do not have to give her your life, because Jesus already did."

And it is in these moments of soul-wondering and hoping where truth comes through: Jesus is the victor every time. Every individual moment of wondering and pain and joy, He is victorious! And it has never been so profound in my life as when a child who couldn't fathom death offered her life for a baby. She is the image bearer of God! A willing sacrifice and a testament to my own dust-filled hands.

Speckles of clouds reflect orange as I write. I've been to the city, gone home in the night on that bumpy road, and know that as I play with these happy children, outside of this fence cars are burning and people are being hurt all in the name of passion and politics! And even still Jesus is victorious.

My focus is a mess most of the time. I drift off to sleep while trying to pray and my Bible is closed most days. Student missionary, student, friend, daughter, I openly confess I am a mess, but Jesus still died.

Still. That's it, right? When I am still I know He is victorious. When I am still I see the gifts of His love messages in creation. When I am still I know courage comes from the God who defines me. Just do it: be still. This where we find Him and know Him. (Psalm 46:10)

Almighty God, who is victorious in the chaos of politics, the pain of saying goodbye, and the day to day scrapes, desires with a life-sacrificing action of love for Him to be known and for us to be well.

Value in Dust

The only thing I could see were her eyes as we passed each other on that busy street in Dhaka. Horns blared and rickshaw bells called out in warning to passerby's of their rushed pace and our eyes met for a few seconds. Although her eyes were the same color as the black Muslim scarf covering her face and head, they were pools of wonderment, desire, and questions she dared not voice. Venturing a smile in her direction, the woman quickly averted her eyes out of respect and culture and brushed past my shoulder as I made my way up the street.

Glancing over my shoulder at her retreating figure, I felt pain and a sense of extreme inequality pass over me. We were supposed to be the same. We are both women, about the same age, and walking the same street on top of the same substance God made us out of: dust. We are all dust. Equal. And yet, here I stand without a black scarf to cover my face: I am free. Free to drive a car, love who I choose, and exist in this world as an individual who has the power of choice. She does as well, but not without repercussions from her cultural background. She, as many do, lives in fear. Fear of rejection and disappointment. Fear had diminished the value of her existence. Her eyes told me this much.

Service is deeper and more personal than signing up for Service days and flying across oceans to live among other people. Service is giving life to the value in which that person was made with. Value which was breathed into us from the beginning.

The black-scarved woman never looked back, just down, clutching her grocery bag tightly between fingers and I too turned and walked on with eyes now filled with wonderment and awe. He who has breathed life, value, into me has given me a great gift and responsibility: to bring the light of value to the eyes of this world through the reflection of Jesus in my words, in my actions, and in my eyes. Oh, how great is a God who is gracious enough to love me and extend His love through my dust-filled skin to the eyes of this world. For it is in His eyes alone where value is fully manifested and freely given.

Craving of Creation

Sunlight cascades through the wisps of evaporating fog and kisses my face as it rests against the woven mat I lay on. I turn and another face is next to mine with eyes full of innocent-mischief that can only be found on the face of a two year-old as a grin spans her little face. Giggles of abandonment bubble out of her as she touches her nose to mine. Just as quickly as her nose touched mine, she is gone; on her tiny little feet running as fast as her body can manage while wearing my size eight flip flops.

And though it only lasted a moment it was her response to my existence that made me want to hit "pause" and grasp the beauty just a bit longer.

Eyes closed during prayer and I lean my head against the three year-old standing next to me with her hand resting on my shoulder. Ever so slowly her back slides down the wall and I feel her warm cheek rest against my head. A smile works its way through me from the deepest parts and with eyes closed still I've experienced its purest form: Response.

It plays hide and seek, beckoning me with every glimpse I catch to pursue again, to live in awareness of the Love and fulfillment experienced in moments of response. Describing it as hide and seek is only from my eyes borne of dust. It really is there all of the time like the constant eb and flow of a river winding it's way to the ocean, somewhere greater.

A smile greets me in passing as I move towards the classroom and a moment of all-consuming love overtakes me as it hits me head-on how much I love these faces around, how much He loves me. And not twelve minutes later do I resent my very dust-filled skin as I enter the classroom and tell these children the need of listening and respect for the seventeenth time this week and its only Tuesday as my crossed arms betray the confidence in the them to learn. I'm dust and I know it.

Even still it finds me again as I walk home and glance up from hands held tight in discouragement and eyes rest on the little boy sitting quietly on the bench. Scooping him up, I sit and hold him close as he chatters to me with that big broad smile smeared with dahl from lunch. He quiets and soon we are sitting in quiet contentment of each others presence. For this is the craziest, less-than-yielding child of the little boys. The one whose clothes never stay on and he is sitting here in my lap; still and happy.

Medicine for my soul. Reminder of response. Response of Jesus being in the faces around. Is that why I crave good conversation, time, and laughter? The soul craves response! The Creator's response to earth was to breathe into dust. This is why grace is etched into our souls like the scars on His wrists: He craves response too! And I am humbled.

"My face is shining upon you, beaming out Peace that transcends understanding. You are surrounded by a sea of problems, but you are face to Face with Me, your Peace."

-Sarah Young Jesus Calling

The Calling Light

Light.

Warmth soaked its way through me as I sat with my back to wall, sitting on a mat outside watching the caregivers embroider new shirts. There are many things that trigger the senses with memories such as taste, smell; but today I experienced it in light.

Sauntering with little brown hands in mine across campus with a full tummy from breakfast, I walked to the place where five ladies sat embroidering on a mat. Stopping to watch I sat down on the mat to learn from their handiwork. As my observing turned into first thirty minutes then one hour, my gaze drifted to the wall where two of the ladies sat with their backs to it, stitching. Studying the light cast on the wall as it played with the overhead branches of the shade tree, my mind was catapulted to places and seasons of home.

The angle of the sun lit up the wall and the ladies embroidering with the same color that shines during the morning in Northern California's wintertime. Memories of family vacations and Christmas' spent in the Sunshine State flooded my mind. I've come to the conclusion: it's okay to be homesick once in awhile. In fact it is necessary.

Sitting there in the sunlight, I was amazed and in awe of how the angle of such light could trigger my memory in such a profound way! Is that what happens when His light is on me? My desire for places I've never known is heightened? Made in the the image of Creator (of dust no less), designed for another place with grace etched into our soul like the scars on His wrists. Who is such a Being who makes us out of dirt with a heart beating out the rhythm of another culture?

What happens when we encounter His presence in another face, words scrawled across loose pages, or with our face to the ground? Something calls deep within us when Light falls upon us and our hearts scream with elation and desire; praise. It is good. It is okay to be homesick when it instills within us a desire for something more, Someone Greater.

"When I can no more stir my soul to move,
And life is but the ashes of a fire;
When I can but remember that my heart
Once used to live and love, long and aspire-
Oh, be thou then the first, the one thou art;
Be thou the calling, before all answering love;
And in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire."

-George MacDonald

Arms Bent

8 month old baby Kenzie

It's three days later and tears still blur my vision every once in awhile as the day rolls on. It happened again as I walked out of the middle of the New Year's day worship with Lucy clinging to my shoulders, her eyes heavy. Reaching for a fleece blanket, I dropped down into the rocking chair of the baby room and let the dark, silky-curled 18 month old lay her head in the bend of my arm. Her big glassy eyes stared up at mine and a trace of a smile played on her lips.

Four days earlier I had held eight month old Kenzie in my arms and she had done the same: looked up at me with an unwavering stare with those big brown eyes and smiled her toothless, all gums smile. And she had fallen asleep holding her hands together just like she had since the day we brought her to Bangla Hope a month and a half ago.

Cradling Lucy, coaxing her to sleep I felt the water brimming my eyes without warning as I realized I wouldn't be able to walk over to the little brown cradle, which use to sit across the room, and pick up Kenzie to hold in my arms. The cradle is no longer there and in its place is space: bare, cold floor tiles.

Walking back to my room after putting Lucy in her bed to nap, hesitantly I passed the garden where a fresh mound of dirt sits with a simple cross protruding from the top. Three days ago a group of us had stood around that spot and had all contributed a handful of dirt to the hole in the earth. We sang songs, prayed, and said goodbye to the youngest of our children hours after breath had ceased flowing from between her tiny lips.

And I sit on the ground; low, wondering where the glory of God will take place. Will it be in the lives of the family of our Kenzie who witnessed our songs, our hope in Him as we said goodbye? Or, will it be in the filling of a now empty cradle?

Or, have I witnessed His glory already in the beautiful smallness of a baby's smile who touched my heart? Yes. I say yes for only His glory has come and has yet to come. Amen.