Hang Gliding with Jesus

(Note: Artist friends, someone please draw Hang Gliding with Jesus. I would be forever grateful.)

I have a horrid fear of heights. I must constantly challenge it (hello, trying to walk the Ben Franklin Bridge footpath), but still it hangs on. So the idea of hang gliding is about as palatable as being locked in a roller disco with Barry Manilow and being forced to to sing "Copacabana" until I lose consciousness. No, just no.

Enter: the Christian life. The longer I'm in it, the more I desperately grab onto Jesus. Life is nuts. Dreams, work, relationships, calling, dying to self, plans for the future, Spain, logistics...I start to think too hard on any one sector and I get the sensation of falling. But I'm held fast. Jesus is not going to drop me — or you, if you're his. So I grab onto the bar and hold on. It's a scary, thrilling, awesome ride. He will complete his work in us.
So pray as I go on this adventure with God. Let's fly!

When Songs Change

Lil dude Oscar, my 3/4 size acoustic.

I wrote a song called Turmoil in 2002. My friend Benj composed the music for it. It's angsty, sure, but not in the typical teenager sense. At the time I was trying to figure out how to walk with a friend in their suffering. It fit the season, which was gut-wrenching.
I picked up my guitar for the first time in ages last night, tuned it up, and started strumming through old ditties. But when I began the chords for Turmoil, a strange thought hit me. The words and emotions in the song felt foreign. I even toyed with writing new verses because the old ones simply don't fit. There's more to say. Twelve years dramatically alters your grasp of wrestling with your own soul, to say the least.
This week I've been thinking about how God renews our minds. When necessary, he changes our songs. Sometimes he just changes the style. Other times, he completely rewrites a wailing ballad into a jumpy six-count swing.

En Serio

Not many things rip my heart out quite like Spain. After all, I've been beating the topic to death for a little more than six years. But this hits hard.
While I was on vacation I got an email from Miss Ruth's pastor in Barcelona. He specifically asked for the brothers and sisters at Tenth to pray because he's been diagnosed with advanced mesothelioma. Pastor Cerni is the minister at the only reformed church in the city. As I posted previously, he heads a book ministry that equips vast portions of the Hispanic world. And he's been caring for Miss Ruth.
I wish I were more spiritually mature and could say that I totally see God's purpose to build the church in Spain. But I'm sad for my friend. Sad for his family and his flock. Sad, perhaps selfishly, that I'm not back there to help. Whatever that means.
So, pray for this dear man, his family, his congregation. Pray for his treatment. For other nationals to be raised up to support the church there. For Spain.

Entiendes lo que lees?

Newsworks file photo

He sat next to me on the subway, the Spanish tract (some variation on the four laws or the like) pinched between his fingers. He wasn't so much reading it as staring at the paper, as though expecting to burn a hole through it.
I don't like speaking to random strangers on public transit. I'm a big fan of personal safety, for one thing. But I kept feeling convicted to say something before I arrived at my stop.
So I asked him if he understood what he was reading.
His head, bowed toward the tract, now snapped up. "Yeah, I understand it," he responded in English. He twisted around in the seat and peered at me. "You know Spanish? Like, read and write it," he said, almost as a statement of fact. I nodded slightly.
Then the words came tumbling out. "I came to the United States from Puerto Rico when I was three. But when I was fourteen I got a Spanish bible and it (he paused)....it just made sense. All of it."
My stop was coming up fast and the train slowed. So I said the only thing I was thinking.
"I pray you find the truth."
He said he hoped he did too. The subway cars slid away from the station. I didn't get to share the entire gospel. But I don't think I was supposed to. Sometimes it's tiny moments that change everything. I'm praying that God spurs the next person who crosses paths with him to give him a kernel of truth. And so on.

God is Bigger

Rough seas. If I close my eyes and think about the last few months, I get the mental image of a boat on choppy waters. Church stuff. Work stress. Interpersonal things. The impact of a broken world crashing down and bringing more hurt and brokenness with it.
I sipped chai tonight with some friends who will soon move to South Asia. The husband talked about recalibrating his mindset in the face of so much transition and change: thinking of his concerns in the scale of God's magnitude. Since God isn't a spacial being, we're not encouraged to think of him in terms of physical size. But the fact that God is greater than anything I face is a huge reminder when I get overwhelmed by the junk in my life.
Sitting on that porch and hearing that snapped me back to reality. Yes, there is hurt and stress and weariness. God's not threatened by me acknowledging that. But there is hope and joy and purpose, too. And in the last few days I've been re-finding that. Big sigh of relief.
So walk with me for a bit. Pray for Spain, for Philly, for seeing the bigger picture.

On my inextricable connection with Madrid

Card from my boss. He knows me so well.

Today is my birthday. It's also the holiday "Fiesta de la Comunidad de Madrid," in remembrance of the uprising against Napoleonic troops in 1808. I always did like a little insurrection with my celebration.
The (spoiler alert!) ultimately unsuccessful uprising was ruthlessly crushed by French agents, and the country itself never really re-stabilized until at least 1850, but the Spaniards put up a good fight. In fact, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Madrid, Malasaña, is named after one of the heroes of the revolt.
I'm thankful for another year of life and all the blessings God has given me. But most of all I treasure the fact that this means I'm one year closer to Spain.

Running with Perseverence

Broad Street Run with Kelsey last year.

As mentioned in some previous post, I have a love/hate relationship with running. Unlike some runners, it's not relaxing. Mile by mile is a fierce battle with my mind, legs, and lungs thrashing to get at each other. I frequently complain to my roommate, Shannon, on my way out the door, "but I don't waaaaanna run."
And yet I go. Circling the local cemetery, out to the edges of the neighborhood, up a main street, down another, and occasionally tracing the rivers when I need the mileage. Aside from the Motown/classic rock/Christian noise embedded in my ears (and the pepper spray at the ready in my pocket, parents!), it's introvert time. I've outrun yappy dogs, jeering jerks, and treacherous sidewalks. Sometimes I've given up and groused at my tetchy ankles and finicky airway (hey there, exercise-induced asthma).
It's only after my running app robotically recites whatever mile I choose to end on and I slow my carcass down to a walk that I start feeling something approaching good and start enjoying my surroundings. By the time I get back to the house, the strife is over and the battle done. I ache. I'm whining and ready to devour whatever vittles are present. And yet, there's a grim satisfaction in every run's completion.
On Sunday I run my first half marathon with my friend Leah. I'm nervous. Races make me nervous in general. In this case, I've run a fair amount, but nowhere near enough to feel completely prepared. The Internet is filled with advice and warnings about how much I'm slacking on fueling/training/preparation. But Sunday comes regardless. I don't want to sound dramatic or full of pretentious-Christian-speak, but I'm really leaning on God's grace. I can only go so far (distance and otherwise) on my own strength. I need grace.
The last few weeks and months keep bringing this lesson back to me. Whether it's running a race, running a career race back to Spain, or running through life, grace is a soft blanket of comfort when the seasons of life are sharp and seemingly unmercifully harsh.
Pray for that race. And if you will, please pray for the one on Sunday.