Not All Who Wander

 A lot has changed since 2017. I got married, moved a couple times, deconstructed and (partially) reconstructed my faith, became more aware of the vast inequities in our world, saw relationships shift, and changed careers.

I started questioning, wondering more, and being certain of fewer things. I don't need to be right all the time anymore. I'm more comfortable saying "I don't know." In the future, look for posts with less tidy answers, and more observations.

The Grace I Didn't Want

My favorite Christmas gift from my mother is socks. Crazy, colorful socks. I believe this is because my parents sought to instill a spirit of gratefulness for every gift. Plus I prize utility.

But sometimes you want something other than socks.

For the last six months, I worked a temp job I did not want. I was an office gerbil in a seemingly endless cubicle farm, and I migrated webpages on the weirdest medical topics you can possibly imagine in a software environment I loathed (Shaaaarepooooint! *shakes fist*).

This job was supposed to end five months ago. Through various job search rollercoasters (the callback high, interviews, the protracted waiting, rejections, etc.), this was a constant. I jumped on the Schuylkill by 7, slid into my cube a tetch after 8, and at the end of each week I collected my paycheck, not knowing if I’d still have work after each Friday. And yet.
It is a grace I did not want. But it’s been what I needed.

In some ways, it had to happen. I’ll admit it, I did a Jessica Jones-level eyeroll when I wrote that sentence.

It’s a very strange dichotomy: to hate the situation you’re in, but also be simultaneously aware that it’s useful and for your ultimate good. I’ve had really amazing conversations with coworkers, a boss who’s been really kind, and the calming steadiness of a predictable corporate environment. The long drive gave me time to catch up on sermons and Turtles’ B-sides. No experience is wasted.

Now begins the next chapter. More hang-gliding with Jesus! Here's hoping for some awesome socks.

The Leather Jacket and Latent Brokenness

My moto jacket is my second skin. I bought it when I moved back to Philadelphia, and it’s accompanied me on many crisp, late-night walks. It survived a particularly fetid journey on the Paris Metro and a drenching surprise thunderstorm in Ankara.

It’s also shredded. Tiny rips trail up the sleeves, the bottom edges are worn down, I keep tacking down fraying stitches, and the leather’s gouged from years of urban spelunking.

It’s time for this thing to retire. But its shiny pleather successor, fortuitously snatched from a summer clearance rack, still hangs in my closet.

Because this jacket is useful. It’s softened and molded to my body. It yields.
I keep thinking about how hard times work in a similar way on our souls if we let the Holy Spirit do his thing. Life has a tendency to wear on us, and I wish we’d acknowledge that a bit more instead of pasting on a church-ready “I’m fine” smile. There’s a reason why blues music is so good—it strokes the deepest feelings of human existence. It resonates.

I was talking with a good friend a bit ago about the idea of latent brokenness: that as we get older, we become more aware that people are not as put together as we think (fear?). For every person visibly coming apart at the seams, there’s a bunch of people who suffer similarly in quiet.

But inside, as the Spirit mends throughout difficulty, the weak sectors of our souls get reinforced. The frayed edges get tacked down. He molds us so we become more like Christ. And then we can turn to comfort others. This is the exciting part. The latent brokenness suddenly becomes useful. And those who used to endure in silence find kinship together.

In this season, my heart/brain gets a jolt of thankfulness every once in a while. I see how God provides in the day, especially in small ways. My favorite sparks are meaningful conversations with coworkers, or an answer to prayer (especially when I didn’t ask for it). I don’t want these to remain short jolts. I want to rest in this. But all I have to offer God is my brokenness. And somehow, He accepts that and begins to shape it.

Aspiration Risk

This is not where I thought I’d be.

Almost a year ago I started what I thought was a dream job. I’d finally found a flavor fusion of writing and ministry with awesome people.

And then it wasn’t.

I’ve always had a sense of purpose, meaning and mission in my work. But all of that vanished. Without exaggeration, everything became meaningless. What should I do next? Would I be any good at it? Would I ever like my work again?

Around the same time, I experienced a personal struggle and loss so sharp that I still can’t quite find pithy language for it. So that’s not for here.

I’ve historically found my identity in my work; my circumstances. As a believer, I know that this identity cannot be the last say. But setting everything on something intangible is horrendously hard when you maintain a physical existence.

My brain and heart are frequently disconnected (I’ve been accused of being too Cartesian), so rational thoughts such as “you’ve survived hard seasons in the past, so you’ll get through this one” might plink on the top of the head, but don’t comfort.

Depression/anxiety is curious because it freezes time. Any idea of the future is horrible because whatever the possibility, it’s fated to be terrible. All that exists is the paralyzing present. For me, time feels like a drawn-out numbing tunnel, devoid of color and light. When feelings surface, they just hurt, often manifesting as physical pain. For a planner and formerly strategy/task-oriented human, it’s terrifying to feel so out of control. No plan. No vision.

Then comes the whispered self-reproach for feeling bad and being a downer because after all, other people have it worse. I’m being too dramatic? Fine.

The Reformed bent of my faith community isn’t helpful when you have thoughts like these.

Stiff-upper-lip sentiments about God’s will and sovereignty smack of quasi-fatalistic resignation, even if it’s unintentional. Much like Job’s friends, they feel uncaring and make the pain worse. I said to one friend (who, thankfully, is nothing like them), “I just need to know that God loves me and has good for me.” And on better days, I ask for hope for the ultimate future.

I can’t really handle much more than that right now. No insecure pastors bickering on Twitter or in the church about minute theological concepts, defending one’s rightness, or trying to pick apart the mysteries of God with man-made systems. Just Jesus, and to know that God’s Word is true. Anything else comes across as callous and indifferent to the Christ I know, who cared.

Dear friends (and the odd wise professional) have shown the Christ who cares to me. This is the main reason I’m walking forward.

Aspiration Risk is a terse hat-tip to the work I’ve been doing the past several months in medical articles. It’s provision for which I’m thankful.

Come and Help

Sometimes I sit at my desk and fight back tears.

No, my job is pretty cool. But, for example, this week I reviewed photos of former child soldiers attending a trauma healing program in central Africa. It’s heartbreaking to think about what these smiling elementary-aged kids have seen and been forced to do. All because some adults desired power.

But there’s hope. I see the evidence of restoration. Because someone cared enough to go to them. To be with them and seek their healing.

The cry of the Macedonian in Paul’s vision is plaintive, begging. “Come over to Macedonia and help us!”

How can Paul help? He doesn’t wait. He goes to them. He spends time in Lydia’s house. And out of that, the Philippian church is born. But we live in a culture with our own divisions, our individual categories. It’s easy to stay here.

I might say I want to help other people, but chances are, I don’t want to sit next to them in the pew on Sunday morning. They’re not like me. They don’t think like me. And it’s easier to stay in my selfish, Christian-flavored life; in my own narrow political sphere and philosophy, than be with people who might make me think differently.

Who is the Macedonian in my life? Who do I need to go and help?

To whom will God send you today?

On the Road to Find Out

Souvenir from the Philly Museum of Art.

I've been fortunate to have big, blinking neon signs when it's time to move on in my life. This is good because I'm about as dense as my great-grandmother's Southern pound cake.
As you know, I resigned as Global Outreach assistant, and I'm moving on to to a senior fundraising writer role. It's a switch, but I'm looking forward to the adventure. The new gig seems to combine all the best parts of GO and my previous journalism nerderity, so we'll see how it goes.

In the midst of this transition, my dear global friend Ruth passed away. I personally became acquainted with her when I started as GO assistant (because AW YISSSS, SPAIN), and we enjoyed a snail mail correspondence over the nearly four years. Her passing at 87 actually coincided with my resignation date, so there's an odd sense of closure. One of my favorite memories of her is her utter indignation at the Catalonian (separatist) flags during their independence day celebration. For that native madrileña, this was something one could not abide. In terms of faith, I hope I'm a quarter as fervent as she was in Kingdom work.

Recently I've been listening to an inordinate amount of Cat Stevens. Given that I once, in my green teenage years, compared his vocals to the sound of a feline vomiting (and now own a sometimes bilious cat), perhaps this is my penance. But on a walk up 17th Street, these lyrics engraved themselves on my brain. So on we go, each one on their marked path.

In Time

I was the kid who always cried on her birthday because I liked being whatever age that was passing away. I distinctly remember turning seven and my mother trying to restrain her laughter as I wailed, "but I liiiiike being six!"
Standing on the edge of a milestone year, it's neat to be looking forward to whatever's next.

But I'm sad to watch the fear that's gotten a chokehold on the American church. The list goes on: the election (and whatever side you're on). Loss of a way of life. Perceived loss of acceptance of the culture. Fear of people not like us arriving in our country. (Gasp.) Wars and rumors of wars. I had to stifle a laugh at a recent meeting where the minister giving the devotional hand-wringingly referenced "the last gasp of American evangelicalism."

Good riddance.

I'm, for the first time, extremely excited. I wear my cynicism like a jaunty beret, so  this is saying something. The "Christian" cultural veneer has finally been stripped away and we can finally begin living like we actually believe it. Loving our neighbors as ourselves. Trusting God for the outcome, whatever it is. Not being scared of certain people or ideologies. Not freaking out over the future, because the day's trouble is sufficient and God is sovereign. At least that's what we say in our Sunday services, right?

Let's get on with the work of the Kingdom: loving people and pointing to Jesus. The future is so (ultimately) bright, I gotta wear shades. Hopefully they color coordinate with the beret.

Don't Ask These Questions

It's easy to move straight to outrage. Between your slightly-unhinged Aunt Edna's Facebook posts and 24 news-cycle idiocy, a good solution might be a "Break Glass For Xanax" canister near every laptop.
Hence why I decided not write this post last week.

I recently attended an important meeting for a partnering organization. I was the only woman there, but since I work in a male-centered and dominated environment, I'm pretty used to that. I'm also used to being the one asking difficult questions. I attribute this mostly to my journalism roots and an even longer-running distaste for bullcrap.
But I was in the middle of the meeting, waiting at my seat for the next discussion to start. A few folks milled around, sipping iced tea. One of the other representatives came over, put his hand on my shoulder, and smilingly asked, "where's your husband?"
Let me be clear. This was a business meeting. You would not ask a man the whereabouts of his wife in the middle of a business meeting, but especially in the context of the church, it's perfectly acceptable to ask professional women their relationship status.
I thought fast, and stammered out "He's been inevitably detained by the time-space continuum." I'm a nerd.

The second question I got from at least three other representatives (I lost count) was, after introducing myself by my job title, "Do you have a degree?" The first time I was asked this, I didn't hear the question behind the question, namely, "Who are you? Why are you here? Are you your boss' envoy?" No one else was asked this question, despite the fact that at least one other representative didn't hold a degree (and he was a dude, folks!)

What makes me furious is that my status in the church is not determined by the quality of the work I do, or by the character with which I conduct myself. It's by my relationship to men, and my perceived assistance to them. What also frustrates me is that some who read this will take this as the rantings of a bitter, single woman who, God forbid, probably edges too liberal and is just kicking up a fuss for funsies. Add that to the fact that I even have to explain myself in the first place.

Stop it. I'm just as much a contributing member of the Kingdom as a single, in possession of a bachelor's degree person as I am a married, non-degree holding, and whipping up biscuits in the kitchen housewife.
Stop perpetuating caste systems in the Body of Christ.

Concrete Grace

I don't like to admit it, but I am the kind of person who will pray for a parking space. (Hey, if you lived where I do, you'd do the same!) But it's in the small, silly things that God teaches me about grace.

On Saturday I bricked my phone. I unwittingly tossed it in the washing machine with a load of sheets, started another chore, then realized I hadn't heard any alerts in a while. It was with a great sinking feeling that I fished my soggy laundry out, reached into the murky water and drew out the phone, only a week old, but just as zombified as my previous one. In vain I tried to resurrect it.

Just like that, I was cut off (well, sort of), from civilization. I'm used to the insta-response world, especially for work.
I was furious. I hate even the threat of being ineffective; inefficient. Combine that with my deep resistance to spending money, and you've got my approximate attitude as I sat and seethed in church. C'mon, God! You know how hard I work! I don't deserve all this crap! I've been so prudent!
And once again, the ugly truth is that I made it all about me and my actions. Gross.

So by Sunday night I was resigned to buying a replacement, thinking it would either be a lesson or redeemed somehow.
The next morning I found out that I may be able to return the damaged phone for a refund. Start over. Grace. Redemption. I don't deserve it.

I see the concrete example of grace in the example of the waterlogged phone. I'm irreparably messed up, but God reached down and plucked me out of deep waters. He's tearing out the junked programming and rewriting my code. It's painful sometimes. I'm resistant to change my heart. But he's patient and won't stop until I'm mended and rebuilt better than before.

The Green Book

I held the green-bound book in my hands with all the care of holding an infant. Gold Arabic script swirled across the cover. I had in my hands a precious copy of Luke and Acts, a translation work from our global partners and their team. The language is a specific Kurdish dialect native to northern Iraq.
Can you imagine not having the Bible in your first language? Only having access to Luke and Acts? What would my faith look like if I only had select passages of Scripture to mull over?

Recently I've felt that the world seems even more loudly chaotic to me. Political crises, economic woes, unbelievable violence and hatred, lack of civility, grief upon grief. A thousand different voices scream themselves into oblivion on social media. But underneath all the noise, we can still hear the whisper of truth, if we'll just listen.

So as I held the small sliver of verses, I was thankful for the simplicity of the gospel. This is what keeps me excited — to see that in spite of everything, truth still makes its way into the world, into languages I can't read or understand, and speaks to the heart of people everywhere.

The Bad Breakup

The full weight of the realization hit me with all the force of an antique crystal punchbowl shattering on concrete (an actual event, but that's for another time).

Over the last year I've kept being convicted that I need to let Spain go. To not seek career appointment or any other at this point. To give up an identity. For nearly seven years I've been That Spain Girl. I haven't seen life outside of this. In fact, I had made the [dangerous] assertion that if I wasn't called to Spain, I couldn't serve anywhere else. I held this calling in a closed fist. It was mine. Not God's. Mine.

I told a trusted coworker about this bit of clarity, and her response was, "do you feel freed or have you lost an identity?" I replied, "It feels like a really bad breakup."
Until fairly recently, one of my points of pride was my ability to carefully arrange my thoughts and emotions like church potluck leftovers. Nice tupperware containers. Clean and precise. To keep with the analogy, I've dispensed with some containers, and the ones I do have don't have matching lids. I'll let God sort it out.

I don't know what's next. I want to feel the freedom my coworker was talking about, but for now I'm sad, sick, embarrassed, disappointed, relieved; a whole mix of things. I might change my blog name, I might not.

This spring, I will be spending my birthday in Madrid. Why, after all this? Because I love this country more than a lot of things, and I think I always will. And I'm not ruling out serving in Spain entirely. Or any other place. But I want to serve with open hands, not a clenched fist.


[Postscript: For the friends who knew this was coming, thank you for the countless missiology/existential talks, identity discussions over sushi, crying fits, late-night WhatsApp messaging, couch hangouts, and prayer times. Thank you for being Christ to me.]

"I Hope I'll See You In Heaven"

Another day, another El adventure.
I had just left a good friend catch-up, with a belly full of kofta, Lebanese tea, and baklava (my favorite), when the El swished into the station. I sprinted up the stairs, slashed my pass through the reader, and managed to stomp my boots onto the platform just before the mechanical voice intoned "doors are closing" and the doors snapped shut. That meant another ten minutes on the frigid, concrete platform. Ugh.
I waited for the next train.
Somewhere around 13th Street he and his friend slung themselves into a seat and started talking about their music and a trip to the Middle East. My ears perked up when he said, "ya know, it's all for Christ" and started detailing how believers in this country surreptitiously identified themselves to him. Story after story about God working through his performances, people coming up to him in the marketplace and telling him their testimony.
I don't know him, his name or anything about him. But I know that he's my brother.
I caught his eye shortly before my stop and smiled. As the train slowed, I identified him as my brother and asked God to bless him. He smiled back and thanked me, and I slipped out of the train.
Two lines (out of context) of a Larry Norman song kept playing in my head as I shuffled the rest of the way home "...I hope I'll see you again someday. But if I don't, I hope I'll see you in heaven."

How many stories will we hear then? How many amazing stories of God's grace surround us each day, but won't be fully known until we get to heaven!

Holding The Ropes

After hearing an account of the spiritual needs of India, the secretary of the meeting remarked: "There is a gold mine in India, but it seems almost as deep as the center of the earth. Who will venture to explore it?" "I will venture to go down," said William Carey, "but remember that you must hold the ropes."

God help me to hold the ropes with steady hands.

(Quote source here.)

Death: On Time Arrival

Sunday after church I headed to the El to get back home, per the usual. I stepped into the subway car and noticed a disheveled man napping at a strange angle in his seat, but put it out of my mind and settled in the opposite end of the car. I've seen many weird things on SEPTA, so my first instinct is to allow adequate room.
Then a passenger started shouting that the man wasn't breathing. It was as if all the passengers roused themselves at once. Conductors' radios crackled to life and the El, still deep underground at 13th Street, screeched to a halt.
No breathing. No pulse. Totally unresponsive. A few people tried to find a heartbeat, with no success. A conductor ordered us out of the car and onto the platform to catch the next El, and shortly ambulance sirens grew louder overhead as they edged closer to whisk the man away.
I noted fear in some of the passengers' faces. How uncertain life is, that you can board at 69th Street Terminal (this was the rumor about the so-called napping man) and be staring eternity in the face by 15th Street!
I didn't get to confirm that the man passed away, but nevertheless, we have no guarantees in this life. Aside from the usual existential thoughts that tumble around my brain, this past week I've kept being bombarded by Matthew 6:33-34. It's the Kingdom that matters. And someday, despite my worrying and stressing about this side of life, it'll be finished. Lord willing, I just hope they won't have to cart my corpse off the El!

The Re-Unreached and Staying/Going

"I'm a Christian because missionary deaconesses left Germany to evangelize German immigrants (most of whom were already nominally Christian — including my grandparents) in the 'reached' city of Philadelphia in the 1930s."

The text from my friend punctuated a few weeks of mental gnawing about calling. I had been feeling a twinge of guilt that I was called to Spain, a so-called "reached" country. What about the unreached people groups? Does anyone care about them?

God does, of course. And I keep having to remind myself that he will call people to go to those unreached.
As for Spain, the same friend from the text previously told me, "don't feel guilty about being called to a reached country. Anywhere where there are people who haven't heard is unreached." Word. And in any case, Spain is becoming increasingly re-unreached, like most of Europe.

It's disheartening for me when people classify missionaries as "those [weird] people" who go overseas. If you truly believe the gospel, you can't help but share it very naturally through your life. "Leaking Jesus" was what my former campus minister called it. In many cases now, mere geography is the dividing line between missionary (if they're even permitted to be identified as such in their country) and regular old Christian.
What I'm not saying is that everyone should move across the world. Staying, praying, supporting, and reaching out in your own neighborhood is equally critical as moving overseas. The church needs both. But let's make sure we have both.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

I'll borrow this post's title from my favorite philosopher, Tom Petty.
I'm deep in year six of figuring out my path to Spain and paying off school debt. My perspective has changed a lot in that time, but the conviction hasn't. I can't explain the gut-twisting rush that I get when I'm faced with Spain. I've mentioned feeling like my heart's being pulled out. Some might describe it as a similar sensation to falling in love. But with that love comes anxiety about the future. How long of a stint should I do? What should it look like? Should I stay in the United States a bit longer to tie up some loose ends? I don't know. I have some time to figure that out.
Task lists and pros/cons charts pile up. Various dreams die hard. Sometimes they don't need to, and their mortification occurs because I've jumped too far ahead in my mind. I'm impatient and yet still nervous.
This past week, I had just nearly gotten over a cold when I got sidelined by the flu. I've been (mostly) resting at home for five days. By day two I wanted to return to work, even though I couldn't sit up. By day three, I was furious. Why couldn't I breathe?! I had so much I wanted to accomplish! Simply waiting for the virus to run its course has showed me how willful I am. Not in a good way.

So I keep being pulled back to today. I'm not good at this. Even when multiple people in a week tell me that I'm in the exact right place for this time.
But I'm learning slowly. This time is just as important. And in that realization there is joy.

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.