On [the possibility of] Something New.

Because knowing you are loved feels like jumping on colorful pillows in the heart of Paris.

As far back as I can remember, I've found great peace in the solitary act of taking scissors to the pages of unwanted magazines. I find joy in the hunt for a word printed in a cool font, or a breath-taking photo on glossy paper. I find hope in the possibility of something new.

I never set out knowing what the end result will be. It's about the journey, the practice, the art. It's about waiting for the puzzles pieces I didn't know had shapes to form by way of my hands and dull scissors.

Once my fingers ache from holding the scissors a little too tight (the way we hold our dreams), I lay everything I've found out around me (it is my safe circle, like in A Little Princess).

Most of the items never get used. They are swept into the trash or a "next time" folder. The lucky few articles I want to used are layered and glued and re-cut to lose what it was and become something new. Always something new.

Today I made that collage above.

What does it feel like to know that you are fully and completely loved? It feels like jumping on colorful pillows in the heart of Paris. Let me tell you, that's how it feels.

On [pulling up] A Seat at Your Table.

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Those who find themselves oppressed by society, be it women, minorities, etc., often discuss how unfair it is that they often are not offered a seat at "the table." 

We spend energy and words and God-breathed oxygen struggling for our voices to be heard and grasping for a seat at the table: whether that is an Afghani woman asking for a seat at the peace table, Sheryl Sandberg calling for more seats for women at the power table, or Sarah Bessey declaring she is done fighting for a seat at the theology table.

Maybe instead of focusing solely on those seats that may or may not exist, we take an honest look at who we are inviting to our own table. Maybe rather than demanding a place at another’s table (or attempting to destroy the table altogether), we open our own tables and declare, “pull up a chair,” to those least expecting an invitation.

Our friends know they are welcome and our allies feel safe dining with us, but can our enemies expect a healthy meal from our hands? Are outcasts free to approach our bounty without fear of being turned away or worse, ignored?

Our table might not be the biggest, the most powerful, or the most influential. The chairs might not match, and we might have to pull the leaf out of the dusty attic. Even so, there are some who don’t have any table at all. Why not find room for more at ours?

My preacherman husband and I are walking (okay, slowly trudging and sometimes crawling, or maybe even clawing) through the book of Matthew with our youth group—which is in and of itself a fun and unlikely story. 

Our youth group is largely made up of the best kinds of kids: non-church kids. They are still figuring out just who Jesus is and they haven’t been shamed into being perfect for the sake of others’ opinions. This means their answers are always honest, usually raw, and sometimes startling. They are completely willing to verbalize, “but I don’t want to do that,” when we read about how Jesus desires that we love our enemies.

I asked them, quite literally, who was sitting at their tables during lunch time at school. No matter what clique they identify with, there was inevitably a type of person they did not want at their table. Some disdained “popular kids,” while others only wanted to sit with other athletes. They all talked about “that table in the corner near the janitor’s closet” that was either awesome or awful to find yourself consuming chicken nuggets at—all dependent upon their experience.

We read the story in Matthew 9 where the Pharisees question Jesus’ choice of dining companions. He wasn’t eating with the people others expected him to eat with—instead of other religious leaders, he was eating with “tax-collectors and sinners.” Because, the Pharisees knew, just as our teenagers in our youth group know full well, when you eat with others, you are associating with them. You are saying, “These are my people.”

So my challenge to our youth—to invite someone to their table who would never expect an invite—is my challenge to you and to myself. Are we only eating with those that others would expect us to eat with? Are we willing to invite people without a table to our own?

We might not always find ourselves invited to the tables we long to influence. In the meantime, let’s pull up a chair for the table-less among us.

My Review of Sarah Bessey's book Jesus Feminist

I must confess, I went into reading Jesus Feminist, which releases today, with expectations. As a faithful reader of Sarah Bessey's blog, I failed to recognize that books and blogs are different, and maybe it wouldn't be quite the same experience.

Jesus Feminist will not be what you expect either. When you read the title, Jesus Feminist, you will inevitably come to the table with expectations: good or bad. Whether they stem from the first word, Jesus, or the second word (what I've heard called the F-word of Christianity), Feminist.

So drop your expectations at the door. Be open to a little academic writing mixed in with her familiar wispy poetry from the blog. The content is needed, wonderful, and inspiring. It is an invitation, more than a treatise. It's one woman daring to introduce you to a Jesus that loves and calls all people just the same.

*full disclosure: I received a free advanced electronic copy of the book to review. Some links are Amazon affiliate links.

On [a beach devoid of people under] A Cloudless Sky.

I had a mid-week day off last week, which hardly ever happens.

I sat down to write a blog, because I want to have something important to say, but nothing came. The "maybe I'll have something to say when's" tempted me, like when I have babies or when we move somewhere foreign or when our real lives start.

I remembered something Sarah Bessey wrote about writer's block recently, "that place where I’m feeling stuck and where I feel I have nothing to say – it’s usually because I have nothing that I’m living and nothing I’m experiencing and nothing I’m taking in. You can’t really write out of an empty well." I didn't have anything to say, so maybe I just needed to live.

I put on my shoes, and stopped feeling sorry for myself. I engaged in that sacred practice of lacing up sneakers.

I live in a postcard. I'm serious. People drive hundreds of miles to visit this painfully quaint little town that I have the privilege of living in. And while they don't see what I see: the drug problems, the poverty, and the lack of access to entertainment or educated people my own age, I see what they see. But I have to remember to look for it.

I got in our car and drove not 10 minutes up the road.

I put in my headphones and It is Well filled my ears, and I walked. I walked, due south, parallel to the waves on a beach devoid of people under a cloudless sky.

I noticed the subtle sinking of wet sand beneath each deliberate step. The roar of the ocean drowned everything out, but the words played crisp and clear and into my heart, where there is no escape from thoughts or beauty.

And then Spring Up, Oh Well, and for the first time that was a prophetic prayer. 

I remembered that I am a Beloved Child of God. The ocean is powerful and big, but God is oh, so much more powerful and bigger.

So, Spring Up, Oh Well for It is Well.

On Learning to Love [that girl] at Summer Camp.

Amy* was that girl at summer camp. She smelled. She was loud, obnoxious, and needed four times as much work grace as the other 13-year-olds.

In addition to her awkward appearance, her social awkwardness isolated her even more. She would burst out with answers that were exactly opposite of the expected reply, especially when speakers presented rhetorical questions.

The 14 of us sat in a circle on the concrete floor of the covered pavilion for our small group devotional: half of us in the shade, the other half baking in the sun. The girls smelled of a musky combination of sunscreen, bug spray, dirty hair, and summer.

The church kids flipped their Bible's pages quickly from passage to passage. You could easily point out those who were less familiar with it when they couldn’t identify which half of the Bible was the “New Testament,” or they didn't have a Bible altogether. 

I saw myself in the church kids in a way that was embarrassing. I remember trying to impress my camp counselors at that age too. I knew Bible verses and song lyrics and the right Sunday School answers. I didn’t know that maybe being nice to Amy would have made them the most proud. The other girls weren’t mean to Amy. They mostly just ignored her, which is often more painful that direct humiliation.

After devos, the schedule said to have personal quiet time for reflection. There were questions in each camper's booklet and a space to write in their answers. The girls dispersed around the area: some leaned against the walls, others sat on the steps, a few perched on the pews with their hands under their chins, their elbows sinking into the pew’s yellow carpeting, and their legs swinging behind them.

But Amy.

I finished scribbling in my answers, you know, to set a good example. What does this verse mean to you? What is God saying to you today? What do you want to say to God today?

I looked over at Amy again. She was laying face up on the concrete, in her same spot from the circle. Her booklet was laying open next to her (on the wrong page). I closed my book and quietly walked over to where she was sprawled, and settled in on the ground next to her.

“Amy?”

“Hmm?” she replied, with more annoyance than wondering what I was doing there.

“Amy, have you already finished your questions?”

“No. I'm not doing them.”

I opened her booklet for her, finding the right page. The answers from the group devos were only half filled in, and the personal portion was untouched.

“Amy, do you think we could answer these questions together?”

“Ok.” She rolled over and peered over my hand as we read the question together. “What does this verse mean to you?” She slowly sounded out the words. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should skip ahead,” I suggested, “to the last question.”

“What do you want to say to God today?” She read aloud, far too loud for quiet time, but I didn't reprimand her. I was simply grateful she was engaging.

“Is there anything you want to tell God?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She said. “I just want to go home.”

“Why do you want to go home? Aren’t you having fun at camp?” I asked.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~           

She’d mentioned wanting to go home earlier in the day during the group worship service. All the kids were jumping up and down and enthusiastically participating in the hand motions for each song. Amy sat next to me on the end of the row, curled in a ball on the pew.

“Do you want to stand up and sing with us?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “I’m the weird girl who doesn’t participate. I just want to go home.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~           

She scuffed her white tennis shoes on the concrete and closed her booklet. “I want to go home, because my Grandpa died.”

“Oh honey! I remember when my Grandpa passed away too. That was really hard! When did that happen?”

“When I was six.” She went on and on about how her parents were unhappy and her Grandma was in a nursing home and they couldn’t visit her and her mom was always sad and her dad was always grumpy.

“Do you want to tell that to God, Amy? Do you want to write that in your booklet?” I asked.

“No.” She crossed her arms and set her pen down.

“Maybe you could just talk to God; you don’t have to write anything down. It's ok to tell him that you are mad or sad or lonely.”

“No. I don’t pray.”

“Well, would it be ok if I prayed with you? I can do all the talking and you can just listen, in case you ever want to try it yourself. It’s really easy.”

“Ok.”

We put our heads together and I talked to Jesus. I prayed for peace for Amy’s achy little heart. I prayed for her family—each member specifically that Amy had mentioned in her moment of openness. I prayed for her to feel comfortable at camp. I prayed conversationally and normal and without saying “Father God” in the middle of each sentence. I prayed like Jesus was lying there on the concrete with us, his head right there with ours, making a three-pointed star on the floor.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~           

All week Amy rarely left my side; I jokingly referred to her as my “shadow.” As I loved on Amy, the other girls in the cabin opened up to her too. They wanted to make their counselor proud, and they saw that loving each other was important.

When it was time for worship, Amy tapped me on the arm.

“Kelly?”

“Yeah, Amy?”

“Can I go up there and sing at the front with all the other kids?”

“Of course!”

She ran up to the front and joined a group of middle schoolers praising Jesus, hand motions and all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~           

I continued helping Amy with her personal devos through the week. Her spelling and writing skills were weak, her comprehension was even weaker, but I think she really just craved the company.

“Is there anything you want to say to God today?”

“No.” She hesitated, “but…” Then she started to write, without saying it out loud first. Thank you for bringing me here, because I have made some new friends.

“What is God telling you through this passage?”

She looked up at me with big eyes. “I think He is saying He wants to open my eyes,” she said. And she wrote it in her booklet.

He wants to open all of our eyes, Amy. He is saying that to all of us. 

*name changed

On [an update over] Coffee.

I'm not going to talk about how I unintentionally stopped blogging for the past three weeks. Instead, an update on my life:

If we were chatting over coffee, I'd probably tell you...

- I'm all moved out of my apartment. After almost seven years of living with my college roommate, I'm temporarily living with an awesome family from my church. Basically this means for about six weeks I have two little brothers who are also in love with me. Adam's jealous. 

- I'll be in Oregon in 27 days. TWENTY-SEVEN FOLKS!!!! That's less than four weeks.

- I'll have a new last name in 66 days. Time really has flown since the 100-day mark!

- A couple weeks ago, I went on my seventh (and final) retreat with my church. I'm so grateful I had that community for the season I lived in Springfield. They truly were my family.

- I taught the eshet chayil chapter of Rachel Held Evans' book A Year of Biblical Womanhood to my ladies small group. The week before that, one of the women taught us about multi-dimensionality. Let's just say we have come a LONG way since the Princess Bible Study of last fall. Those ladies are amazing, smart and fierce!

the handout and key chain I gave all the ladies.

- God is providing, y'all, in seriously phenomenal ways! I am amazed by the way God continually blesses Adam and I as we trust him to be our provider. The latest: we got a free (BEAUTIFUL) futon!

- Wedding planning is hitting that point where things are coming together and falling apart at the same time. I can't wait to get to Oregon so I can do more hands-on detail work. 

- We chose to do fill-in-the-blanks for our wedding RSVPs. Apparently everyone really wants us to have lots of babies!

- I'm thinking about making a Things-to-do-One-Last-Time-Before-I-Leave-Springfield-Bucket-List. So far: Gailey's and Galloway Station are at the top of my list. Any other suggestions?

On [somehow surviving] Long-Distance, Again.

I consider every passing moment I survive without you a success. The days on my smartphone's countdown pass far too slowly, but pass they do.

Can you believe it's been 11 days since I've seen you, love? Since you held me in your arms and whispered, "I can't wait to marry you."

115 days, love.

Our lives are all flip-flopped right now. I'm done with school. You just started a new job. My busy season has slowed, and yours is just picking up.

But you make time for me.

Date night is always a priority, you said. Always.

They're precious, those few hours we carve out to spend together. We survive the days by filling the gaps with texts, facebook messages, quick "hellos" on the phone, tweets, and instagrams to convince ourselves that our lives are intertwined. This busyness deems date night to be sacred, even in this season when that translates as Thai food take-out and a Redbox movie while we Skype.

And we silently pray that this simultaneous activity will somehow manage to bridge that 2,000-mile gap.

On [my passionate opposition to] Being Given Away.

via

I mentioned in a birthday letter to my dad that I'm passionately opposed to being "given away" at my upcoming wedding. I realized nonchalantly putting that in a post didn't adequately reflect my feelings on the issue, or explain my reasoning.

Let me be clear; I love my parents dearly. Their opinion of my relationship is extremely valuable to me. That's why there will still be a parental blessing at the ceremony. That's why we aren't eloping. We want to stand before God, our families, and our community when we make that covenant commitment and pledge our love, faithfulness, and forever days to one another.

But I will not be given away. There will be no transaction from father to husband.

The "giving away" terminology bears the implication that I am property.

This implication stems from (what most consider to be) an archaic notion that women are less valuable than men, that for some reason women can be bought and sold like a horse or a house.

I'm sure my parents would agree that the leftovers of patriarchy in the wedding traditions are absurd, especially considering how empowered and strong many young women are today (I have a master's degree, thank you very much).

The problem is, there are still women in the world today who do not have control over who they marry, where (or if) they get an education, or what vocation they spend their lives in.

Jesting about how many goats my fiance will present to my father on my wedding day makes a mockery of women who are forced into relationships they don't want, neglected the education they deserve, and don't have the access to the freedoms I take for granted. Why don't we perceive similar statements on the same level of offensive as a joke about a black person being sold for $400 in a light-hearted throwback to slavery?

I'm thankful for the spiritual responsiblity my father has taken for my family, and I appreciate my future husband's willingness and ability to do the same for our family.

Being protected, loved, cherished, and on the same team as someone is completely different from being owned, traded, and counted among property. Women in America should be grateful for the equality they have fought for in terms of education, the workplace, and in the family. However, making light of what we consider an archaic system dismisses the sobering reality of the plight of millions of the world's women, our sisters who have no say, let alone control, over their marriages, education, and destiny.

On [my last semester of] Seminary and Stress.

Maybe when I'm done with school we'll find out what this table actually looks like! :)

I should be working on a paper right now: the last research paper of my educational career (unless someday I decide to get my doctorate or something crazy like that).

It’s November, which means I’m a few days into my last full month of my master’s degree.

And soon, I'll be Master Kelly.

Yes, you are free to call me that.

But really, why is it that I feel like I know less now than I did when this all started almost two and a half years ago? 

Graduating from high school creates the illusion that the world is an oyster; endless possibilities; able to do anything the mind is set to do.

College reveals that life isn’t so simple, but after four years, a feeling of accomplishment sets in. Like, well, if I could tackle that undertaking—anything else life throws at me couldn't be too bad.

And then graduate school breaks us, especially seminary. 

I saw God in ways I’d never seen before.

I learned things that I probably should have known all along—especially as a pastor’s kid that grew up in church. With each lecture, chapel, trip across the world, and conversation, all the presumptions of knowing it all, of having somehow arrived, were stripped away. 

I feel more like Kelly, but more like I have no idea what everything is supposed to look like. 

I feel like I've learned so much, but that I'm aware of how much I don't know. 

But then it's all simmered down back to the basics: love God, love people. 

We make it so complicated, while we are busy adding degrees to the end of our names, but Jesus already told us what it's all about. 

Loving. 

On [finding myself among] Women of Valor.

Upon finishing Rachel Held Evans’ new book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood, I wanted to applaud. I sat in awe, at how a book surrounding such controversy, simply pushed me toward Jesus.

It made me feel so connected to women around the world, in a way that transcends time and space. I felt like I finally understood what connects the Jewish women of the Old Testament, the early Christian women of the New Testament, and the millions of Christian sisters around the world who all live out their faith in different ways.

The Amish women Rachel met were not like the women in Bolivia. Rachel’s Jewish friend Ahava was not like the girl she interviewed who’s family believed in the Quiverfull approach to childbearing. Mary Magdalene was different from Deborah who was not the same as Tamar.

And it’s ok that we’re all different. They can all represent  Eshet chayil: Women of Valor!

I found that this book was less about womanhood, and more about personhood—how we relate to Jesus, ourselves, and others while we are on Earth. Her exploration in prayer and silence as observed by different traditions intrigued me enough to want to examine my own prayer practices.

She approached the Bible in such a gentle and thoughtful way, even more careful and loving than I expected. Sometimes people who self-identify in either the “egalitarian” or “complementarian” camps are viewed as harsh and unsympathetic. I was happy that I did not find that attitude in this book. Her words and stories clearly show that she dearly loves Jesus, holds the highest respect for the word of God, and cares deeply for humanity—especially women who have a difficult plight in most areas of the world.

In between her tender words about the Bible, Rachel shares hilarious anecdotes that occurred during her year of trying to live as a biblical woman. She adopted a computerized “baby think it over,” camped outside during “the way of women,” and attempted to cook her way through one of Martha Stewart’s cookbooks.

While reading the book, I felt the need to define roles to be less and less important, and my desire to become like Christ to be more and more significant. “It’s not our roles that define us,” Rachel writes, “but our character.” I want my character to reflect that of Christ alone, rather than an unrealistic ideal that the church thrusts women.

Full disclosure: I received a free advanced copy of the book to review.

On Finding [out more than I wanted to know about] George

via

There was a time early on in high school, back in the days of MySpace and AOL instant messenger, when I stumbled upon a web site called "Where's George." My mom, ever the avid reader, had found an article in a magazine about the site, and I was thrilled when she told me about it.

The function of the site: track your dollar bills.

In order to track your bills, you simply enter the serial number of the bill into the site. If someone before you has entered the bill, it will have a list of the places the bill has been and the people who have owned the bill before you. It told you what city they were in, how long it took the bill to travel there, the bill's speed, and a little note from the person who entered the bill before or after you. Sometimes people would write "wheresgeorge.com" on the bills to encourage others to enter the bill's information.

After entering the bill, it was to be used just as you would regular cash currency.

I went on a george finding rampage. I entered all the dollar bills I could get my hands on. I would leave detailed information about where I got my bills: the mall, at work, my mom's purse. It was especially exciting when bills I entered had a prior history, or when a bill was entered by another user after I'd sent it on into the world of legal tender exchange.

The stories were generally simple. "Received as a tip at the Downtown Deli in Anchorage, Ak. The bill is in good condition." "I received this bill as change when crossing the Benicia Bridge in the San Francisco Bay Area and took it home to Truckee Ca., Lake Tahoe Area." "Received bill while selling Discovery Toys at the LA County Fair."

Some of the entries didn't make sense. "Has pink highlighter on it...was probably involved in a bank robbery." "The black guy brought it in to Sinclair, but then we gave it back to him." What?

But even the strange entries didn't deter me from my mission. I loved learning about the stories of the bills. I loved seeing how long it took for my money to travel from Albany, Oregon to North Carolina, Alaska, Utah, and Nevada.

Until one day.

I emptied my wallet to enter all my bills. I entered the numbers and years of each one into the web site, careful to scrawl "wheresgeorge.com" on the top and side of each bill. About halfway through my stack, I finally found a bill that had been entered into the site before. I was so excited, and quickly perused the dollar's history.

"I am a stripper. I got this bill as a tip. thanx."

Before I could finish reading the sentence, all of my cash was on the ground. How could I touch money again? It took me several weeks to get over washing my hands every time I was near money. After a year or two of entering my money, my quest to find every bill's history ended.

I learned that every dollar bill has a story, and every "george" is on a journey. In the same way, every person has a story, and is on a journey. Many times people's stories seem simple and straightforward, sometimes people are strange and don't make sense, and other times people disgust us. We don't want to touch them. We don't want to get close to them. We want to wash our hands of them. 

That is the paradox of being a Christian. When we naturally want to disengage and move away from people, we probably should try and understand them. That's what Jesus does for us. The people who are weird and gross to us probably need love the most. That's what Jesus did when he was on earth. When we humble ourselves and get over our pride, we can actually hear their story, understand them better, and maybe even learn to love them.

On [finding value in] the Princess Analogies.

My brother and I at Disneyland, circa 1991.
I look terrified and, according to my roommate, exactly like my mom.

Before I was born, my parents decided to name me Kelly: a name that, according to their baby name book, meant “brave warrior.” 

As a child, my heroes were girls from books like "Harriet the Spy" and Meg from "A Wrinkle in Time," ladies from history like Joan of Arc, and women in real life like Mother Teresa, rather than the princesses of Disney like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. (Although, I must admit, I did love Snow White. Not for her Prince Charming, but for the woodland adventure and abundance of animals.)

At present, I’ve found myself in what I would call a “God’s Princess Bible Study.” Although the leaders of the group don’t intend for us to think of Jesus as our boyfriend, and ourselves as helpless maidens, I can’t help but be leery of princess metaphors when it comes to my relationship with God.

My favorite Bible character is Jael, the one who drove the tent peg through Sisera’s head. I want to do mighty things for God, not wait around for him (and the men in my life) to come and rescue me from my poor, sad life. 

I’m not a damsel in distress; I’m a powerful woman of God. 

I don’t want to dwell on issues of body image and identity, when there are people who need to be loved, and I have the Jesus who will be faithful to meet them where they’re at. There are women in the world who would never even dream of thinking of themselves as a princess, and would honestly be shocked that the God of the universe would give women the time of day.

At the same time, I’m convicted of the cynicism in my heart. I know deep down that there is value in discovering your identity in Christ. I recognize that it is imperative for all Christians to anchor their hope solely in the resurrection of Jesus. I'm not even against "women's events." I can enjoy the occasional tea party, but I’m worried that we’re missing the point.

We are limiting ourselves when we think that the only thing women have to offer the body of Christ is children’s ministry and fashion shows; when the only topics we dare to speak about are bulimia* and dating; when we spend more time teaching our teenage girls about what to look for in their future “prince,” than how to have a conversation with the Prince of Peace.

I’m trying to be honest with myself, and my small group, about struggling with the princess analogies in the bible study curriculum. I’m trying to be open-minded as I go into this study, realizing that I can definitely learn things during the next 10 weeks with these girls. But the biggest thing I’m slowly learning is that it's not all about me, and maybe my role isn’t to “get something out of” this study, but to be there to support my sisters; to walk beside, and with, and hold their hand, and wipe their tears, as other women before have done for me; to be a fellow traveler on their journey of finding what it means to follow Jesus.



*note: I have no desire to deny the gravity and seriousness of eating disorders. This is not intended to downplay that issue in any way, or to take away from the personal experiences that people have gone through. I fully support professional counseling and being supportive of your friends and family members who are dealing with these serious matters. 

On [what I'd say in a love letter to] My Body.

Let's keep exploring the world together, shall we?
I think it's worth it.

Dear Body,

Well, this is awkward.

Sometimes I talk about you, knowing you’re listening, but I rarely talk directly to you. Except in the “Seriously! Today?” sort of way.

If we lived on an isolated land without any others, I’m sure we’d get along great. Because, haven’t you heard, comparison is the thief of joy. Let’s try and stop doing that, shall we?

Sorry I’m somewhat of a klutz: breaking you, bumping you, and bruising you almost daily. But you’re tough. Thanks for that.

Not only are you tough, but you’re also strong. Stronger than I give you credit for, due to my self-diagnosed low-sports-self-esteem. I say you’re uncoordinated, but really I’m usually just too scared to try. When I let go, and ignore those thoughts of comparison and what-might-other-people-think, usually we do ok, you and me. We did climb a mountain together, you know.

I’m trying to take care of you, so we can grow old together. I’ll try to save bacon for the very special moments, and feed you more vegetables. But I don’t think I’ll be giving up ice cream anytime soon. Let's go running and biking and to jazzericse to dance our heart out. I’ll wear sunscreen when I’m at the lake, even though I really want a glowing tan.

I’m kind of fond of that little line on my nose that I made from wiping my snotty, allergy-afflicted nose as a kid. I giggle when I see that weird scar on my ring finger that I got from shucking corn. I'm glad I have a round, Finnish face to remind me I'm quite a lot like my mom. 

I especially love that little freckle on the little toe of my right foot. It’s my favorite.

I promise to embrace my curves, love my laugh, and try to speak (and think) only nice things about you. Not because I’m stuck with you, but because we’re in this together.

Fondly,

Kelly

I'm joining other women who are writing love letters to their bodies over at SheLoves Magazine's synchroblog. Now, go write your own. 

On Bubbling, Unquenchable, [revolutionary] Joy.

goodnight, Paris.

I’ve noticed a tendency in people of my generation (and often in myself as well) to be on a quest for happiness. We are far too inclined to look for happiness in other people, in a relationship.

We too often base our own worth, value, and happiness upon whether or not someone likes us, approves of us, chooses us.

None of that matters.

Your value is not dependent upon what people think of you.

Don’t use other people as a gauge for determining your happiness.

If you want to have real joy; unquenchable, bubbling joy—it has to come from a real, unquenchable, bubbling source.

People are finite. People are quenchable. People don’t always bubble.

So to think or expect that your own happiness is dependent upon how someone else feels about you, what they think about you, or if they approve of you, is to guarantee yourself unhappiness.

Recently, a friend asked me “what do you want?” My gut reaction in my mind was to say, “to be happy.”

But I want more than that. I want depth. I want to have more joy. Simply “being happy” isn’t enough. But I know depth can be hard; it can be painful.

But when I allow those dark/scary/hurting places to be loved and brought to light and truth is spoken into those situations, change is possible. Revelation of truth brings about change—the kind of change that is revolutionary in a person’s life.

Change that is far more revolutionary than mere happiness can bring.

When my heart changes in that way, I am able to honestly declare, “I have joy.” When everything around me may make for a crappy situation, happiness might not abound. I won’t always say, “I am happy,” because life happens. Life is hard—with all its disease, sickness, sin, anger, lies, broken families, and unemployment. The world isn’t perfect.

But my God is.

His love is perfect.

I’ve already been chosen. He has already proven that I matter. He has already demonstrated how much value I have. I am already loved.

You are already loved.

When the revelation of the truth of that love shines into the same crappy situation, and we allow our hearts to be changed, there is joy.

On Elevators and [finding hope in] Unexpected Adventures.

A screenshot from a "last words" video
we made while we were stuck in the elevator. 

I checked something off my bucket list yesterday: get stuck in elevator. (Subsequently, this takes care of No. 22 on my 25 before 25 list.)

Of course, it didn’t happen exactly as I planned. Zac Efron was supposed to be there, but he missed his opportunity. Oh well.

Eva and I had just returned from a LONG bike ride along the river. We had forgotten water so we were dying of thirst. The apartment we live in is on floor 4 (which is actually the 5^th floor), and at floor 3, the elevator stopped.

No loud banging sound. No jolting. It just stopped.

One moment we were on our way home for some water and leftover pineapple whip. The next moment we were stuck without a time frame of hope for when we’d next taste water.

After a few minutes of figuring out how to use the call for help button, we were connected with a lovely French lady who promised that a technician would be around in oh…an HOUR or so.

We texted Eva’s mom who called down the elevator shaft to make sure we were still breathing, and should she call the firemen? We assured her that someone was on the way, and yes we had plenty of oxygen (but could you somehow send us water?).

We sat, which turned to slouching, which ended in lying on the ground; our heads propped up on our purses. It smelled funny, which could have been from our post-bike ride state or the unknown number of feet that have stood on the elevator’s floor since its last cleaning.

We laughed because we didn’t have the two necessities we normally have with us: water and the Bible. So rather than drink water (living or not), we found other ways to pass the time.

We sang some songs. (For some reason Veggie Tales and the Sound of Music were stuck in my head.) We played that game where each person adds a new line to a story that you create together. (The first story was about a dog who gets stuck in an elevator (I wonder where we came up with that idea?), and one story was about an ant who starts a multicolored wig business. Creativity at it’s finest!) We thought up ways to get out of the elevator, but ended up heeding the advice of the French lady on the other end of the intercom: “Don’t try and fix the elevator on your own.”

An hour later, almost to the minute, we heard a man’s voice, and we replied that, “Yes, we are still in here.” A few minutes later the doors popped open and we had to jump a couple feet out of the elevator to the floor, but hey, at least we were saved.

Getting stuck in an elevator happened the way a lot great things in life happen: unexpectedly and unplanned. 

We can spend hours and days and years planning out how our lives can be the best adventures possible, but sometimes the best things can’t be predetermined. Things like falling in love, meeting a kindred spirit, stumbling upon a brilliant new culinary concoction in your kitchen, finding a beautiful hidden secret place along a river, getting stuck in an elevator; these things can’t be planned.

One of the girls here has been asking me a lot about how we hear from God. I think part of the problem is our desire to want to plan everything; to have a formula for how things will happen; to want to work out everything ahead of time. But God doesn’t work according to our plans, he isn’t a genie waiting for us to use the right magic formula, and sometimes the answer is simply “wait and obey,” instead of something clear and concrete.

But if our hope is for the best, and I believe he has the best things for us, what is unplanned, unexpected, and surprisingly will be greater than any adventure we could arrange on our own. 

On Swans, Sunshine, and [the way my heart is] Swimming

I don't know the couple in this picture. But hey, France is for lovers! :)

The Saturday morning before last, we slept in late, did some housework, and decided to go rent bikes.
But the bike place was closed on Saturdays. Typical.

Instead we wandered around centre-ville, waiting for Jorge (and the car).

Ice cream! (The chocolate is amazing here, and this region is known for its walnuts; so noix ice cream is is!)
Organic food hippie demonstrators; am I in Eugene?
Hot! Hot! Hot!

Finally, we were on our way to the lake. It was huge, and one side was bordered by a mountain. (I'll never get tired of the mountains!)

Did I mention the sun was hot?
The water, however, was cold.
But we swam.
Our toes slipped on the algae-covered rocks.
And we splashed.
And laughed. (Oh, my favorite thing. Other than naps!)
We caught lizards. And watched two swans elegantly swimming along the crust of the water.

Families with small children and dogs lined the lake's beach.
Never on leashes; neither the dogs nor the children.

After our toes were numb, and our legs sufficiently frozen, we dripped out of the lake to let the sun dry our skin.
I closed my eyes.
And delighted in the day.

When my mind began to retract and become filled with sad and weary thoughts (as it sometimes does when I'm alone), I intentionally pushed them out.
"Empty my mind.
Fill it with You.
Steady my heart.
Fill it with You.
Quiet my soul.
Fill it with You,"
I prayed.

For a moment it was just me, and the lapping water, and the warm rays of sunshine.
And I was.

On [how the night makes] The River.

The Isère river by day.

Eva and I had grown weary of watching French television.
Jorge picked us (and the guitar) up about 11:30 p.m.

I've discovered that Grenoble is beautiful at night.
By day, my eyes are captivated by the mountains.
But at night, it's the rivers that capture my gaze.
Though polluted, they don't look so dirty in the moonlight.
The shadows of nearby buildings lit only by streetlights hide the graffiti covering the canal walls.

After squeezing through a fence to get closer to the powerful Isère river, we sat among tiny rocks and tried to brush away remnants of broken green glass.

Two ducks fought the heavy current in an attempt to join us where we sat.

A lightning show started to our right, just behind La Bastille.
There weren't any stars in view due to the clouds, but the storm ensured a bright sky.
Thunder boomed between chords from Eva's guitar.

We sang
in English
and Spanish.
We laughed. How thankful I am for the universal language that is laughter!
And we talked about God, as often seems to be the case these days.

Eventually, as I've found to be the norm here in Grenoble, the rain caused us to vacate our temporary strip of riverside property. Off to our beds we went, but the river never sleeps.

On [being sure of the future by] Remembering.

A view of the mountains and the city from the terrace of the Musée Dauphinois in Grenoble, France.
Honestly, this has nothing to do with this blog post,
but I've already shown you what the view out my window looks like.

I've found the perfect little nook in my room for nestling into. With the window open and my knees pulled up against my chest, I wedge myself into a place where my back rests upon the open pane and my toes curl under the table in front of me.
It's best when I'm drinking tea (mostly because the coffee here leaves much to be desired).

This afternoon, one of the neighbors has a fireplace going. Between the tweets of the birds (I'm not making this up!), I hear the trickling-splatty sounds of rain on the roofs.
It's like Oregon-rain. Long and drippy, much better than the stormy rain in Missouri. It's like slow steady tears, rather than sobby outbursts.

A new friend and I went through our life timelines today.
And we remembered.

I remembered...
where the Lord has brought me,
what he has taught me,
the people he has given to me to enjoy life with,
and what he has allowed me to experience.

I know it all had a purpose.
From being rescued from certain death as a 6-week-old baby to being sure God was speaking to me through a project in middle school.
He has been there.

My life thus far has been full.
...of wonderful, delightful, messy, joyful, challenging, and stretching experiences.
I can count this among those times.

I count these three months when I jet off to another part of this ever-shrinking world (that still seems so big). I count these days where I live with Venezuelans, hang out with French, and am intrigued by the North Africans living in the apartments down the block.

God brings each of us to the places where we are, and I can't believe any of it's an accident.
I must believe that, if I let Him, He will be faithful to direct my steps, always knowing my path before I walk it. I just have to be present on the journey.

So I sit in my nook overlooking my own little portion of Grenoble: where most of the buildings pre-date the United States, and most of the people weren't born here.
I'm waiting.
I'm asking.
But mostly, I'm being.
I'm being here.
Because someday—in two or five or 10 or 25 years—I will remember how these three months on my timeline helped determine the trajectory of my life.

On [the organ music of] Empty Cathedrals.

L'Eglise Saint-Louis in Grenoble, France

As I sat on the steps of L'Eglise Saint-Louis, it started to rain.
The droplets could be the tears of Mr. Loo-wee, or me, or Jesus, I thought.
Crying for the souls of the people of Europe who have forgotten.

On a Sunday evening their bars were crowded,
their restaurants were full,
their markets were bustling,
and their cathedrals stood empty.

The building housed 400 years of echoes of chiming bells and an organ bellowing hymns.
But then I realized there really was music coming from the church behind me.
I scrambled up from the steps, but found the door was locked.
No signs hung nearby to announce service times.

I slid back down to the ground, situating my head at the perfect angle to hear the melodies through the heavy wooden 17th-century door. I leaned back on the stone wall, simply listening.

After awhile, the music stopped.
The doors opened to reveal a man walking out of the cathedral, sheet music in hand. He proceeded to lock the doors behind him.
I imagined he was in there worshipping for an audience of one (or two if you count the nosy American listening through the mammoth doors).

In the mournful resonance of the organ's pipes I didn't hear the demise of Europe's faith. I heard reverberations of hope: that one day L'Eglise Saint-Louis would again be filled with worshippers praising together, along with the rest of Grenoble, with the rest of Europe; that the words inscribed above the doors—that this house was built for the Lord—would again be true.




*After some quick Google searches, I later discovered that this man was rehearsing for an upcoming concert featuring their newly refurbished organ.

On Writing, Being, and [walking on] Water.

via

A Wrinkle in Time was one of my favorite books as a kid. That and Harriet the Spy, Anne of Green Gables, and anything with a strong female lead in those pre-Hunger Games days. So when I heard murmurs about Madeleine L'Engle's book, Walking On Water, I immediately recognized her name. (One of my favorite bloggers even called it her favorite book she read in 2011) The premise: L'Engle's reflections on faith and art, intrigued me enough to find myself a copy.

It sat on my bookshelf for weeks before I actually got around to picking it up. The delay was mainly due to my busy schedule of grad school, work, church, getting things ready for France, and some semblance of a social life. But once I did pick it up, none of that mattered. It didn't matter that I was quickly approaching finals week with little time to spare. It didn't matter that in mere weeks I'd be flying to the other side of the world for the summer.

It's hard to put into words what this book did for me. If you are a musician, writer, artist, or otherwise creative person, I sincerly implore you to get your hands on a copy, especially if you are feeling drained creatively or suffering from "writer's block," regardless of medium. This book invites you to be a dreamer; to believe things are possible that we have long forgotten: like how to walk on water.

The book begins with beautiful imagery of just being. Something, I think, we all have a hard time reconciling in our frantic little worlds. Busyness always seems to take precedence over being, and I think that's why I kept reading the book, even in such a busy season of my life. It refreshed my soul to hear that it is ok, more than ok, it is good to take time to just be.

"I sit on my favourite rock, looking over the brook, to take time away from busyness, time to be. I've long since stopped feeling guilty about taking being time; it's something we all need for our spiritual health, and often we don't take enough of it...When I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening." pp. 2-3

And L'Engle talked about what it means to be a Christian today (even though "today" was 1982 and the internet/facebook/twitter/hulu/instagram/smart phones/and pinterest weren't around yet). She quoted lots of famous people and less than famous people and sometimes she didn't know who she was quoting, just that their words had impacted her at some point in her life. She collected and recorded all of these quotes in one special notebook throughout her life. I think I need a notebook like that.

L'Engle probably wouldn't be described as Evangelical, but she had her own way of sharing her faith. She fashioned her life around wisdom from the words of Emmanuel Cardinal Suhard. He said, "To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist." p. 26 I don't think any of our lives would make sense if God did not exist.

Later in the book, she likened that "living mystery" to a sort of light. "We draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, by telling them how wrong they are and how right we are, but by showing them a light that is so lovely that they want with all their hearts to know the source of it." pp. 140-141

The following quote that L'Engle copied out of Chekov's letters was especially encouraging leading up to finals week. "You must once and for all give up being worried about success and failures. Don't let that concern you. It's your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes, which are inevitable, and for failures." p. 29 Chekov was talking about engaging in art, but I think the message of this quote is applicable to every part of life. It's inevitable that sometime in life we will fail. And we will most likely succeed sometimes too. Our focus should not be on those successes and those failures, but on being steady in our day to day lives.

I think my favorite quote in the book was from Rainer Rilke, a poet. She is talking about how to know if you are truly called to write, to be an artist. "You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all--ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for an answer. And if this should be affirmation, if you must meet this earnest question with a strong and simple 'I must,' then bind your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and testimony to it." pp. 29-30

Fill in the word "write" with whatever your artistic medium. Must I paint? Must I make music? Must I act?

Must I write?

I must.