Two weeks ago we began unpacking the idea of ghostwriting. Be sure to check out the first two posts: Moral and Famous.
One thing I have failed to mention is that I am a ghostwriter. Not just for the Lord. And not for my freelance coworker who's going to make me famous. (I resigned from that job when he said something snarky about Northerners).
As a ghostwriter, I have spent a significant amount of time with my authors trying to identify their voice. I listen to the way she speaks, the way he tells stories, and her patterns of speech. I have to replicate it.
It's a challenging (fun-challenging) job where I set myself aside and speak as someone else. When I write "I," I don't mean "Katie." When I say "we," I may or may not be part of that crowd. My favorite words disappear, and his quips appear.
It takes a lot of practice to sound like someone who isn't Katie. (Then it takes practice to sound like Katie again). It's the process of finding the author's tone or her voice to accurately represent her.
If we are all ghostwriters in that we are all to be invisible and God visible, then we too need to practice finding His voice.
The more time my author and I spend talking, the easier it is for me to pick up on his patterns of speech, word choice, and idiosyncrasies (we all have them).
The more time I spend with the Lord, the easier it is to pick up on His voice as well. Is what I think God is saying consistent with His word? When I open my mouth, am I speaking the voice of the Encourager, Comforter or am I speaking as sinner Katie?
Just like I don't always get voice right in my writing, I certainly don't always get it right in my life.
I tear down instead of building up. I cling to fear rather than trust. I hesitate rather than stepping in obedience.
But I haven't given up. I'm going to keep trying. The end prize will be worth it. Nothing will be for my glory but rather the One who deserves the glory. The God who put up with my blundering, who was willing to work through my failures, who took a chance in me.
<>< Katie
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Being Called
Our conversation was brief. Just long enough to drive from the coffee shop back to her dorm.
She spoke about how she was studying for a test in her missiology class. We spoke about Compassion. I mentioned that I'm a writer. She said she feels called by God to open an orphanage in a specific African country.
I wanted to practice asking questions. Why that specific country? What did her call look like? Why start an orphanage rather than work for an existing one? For once I had no shortage of questions.
We did have a shortage of time. So I packed my questions away to save for a future opportunity.
As I drove home I wondered what it would be like to have such a clear calling on my life. To know--at the start of my college career or earlier--what I wanted to do for God's kingdom. I figured it must be nice.
I'm just a writer with a degree and no idea where God's calling her to step next. I was jealous of her and admired her all at the same time. I wanted my own clear calling.
I saw her again two day later. Before I could pour out my question box, she mentioned that maybe she wasn't interested in that specific country. She'd heard some terrifying things that had happened there. Part of me wanted to tell her not to give up her dreams. The other part of me breathed a sigh of relief.
She's just like me: some clue of what to do but no idea what it will actually look like once she gets there. She didn't get a jet-stream message from the Lord. Her confidence was as thin as mine when I said I was a writer.
True, I am a writer. A freelance writer. A ghostwriter. A professional writer. An underpaid/underemployed writer. A blog-writer. I didn't say all of that. I just said, "Writer." It sounds better that way.
True, she's studying missiology (the study of missions) because she's got a heart for missions. True she wants to care for orphans. True she loves Compassion as much as I do. Maybe true she'll start her own orphanage and maybe true it'll be in that specific African country. But who knows.
God does.
And right now, He's not telling.
For either of us.
<>< Katie
She spoke about how she was studying for a test in her missiology class. We spoke about Compassion. I mentioned that I'm a writer. She said she feels called by God to open an orphanage in a specific African country.
I wanted to practice asking questions. Why that specific country? What did her call look like? Why start an orphanage rather than work for an existing one? For once I had no shortage of questions.
We did have a shortage of time. So I packed my questions away to save for a future opportunity.
As I drove home I wondered what it would be like to have such a clear calling on my life. To know--at the start of my college career or earlier--what I wanted to do for God's kingdom. I figured it must be nice.
I'm just a writer with a degree and no idea where God's calling her to step next. I was jealous of her and admired her all at the same time. I wanted my own clear calling.
I saw her again two day later. Before I could pour out my question box, she mentioned that maybe she wasn't interested in that specific country. She'd heard some terrifying things that had happened there. Part of me wanted to tell her not to give up her dreams. The other part of me breathed a sigh of relief.
She's just like me: some clue of what to do but no idea what it will actually look like once she gets there. She didn't get a jet-stream message from the Lord. Her confidence was as thin as mine when I said I was a writer.
True, I am a writer. A freelance writer. A ghostwriter. A professional writer. An underpaid/underemployed writer. A blog-writer. I didn't say all of that. I just said, "Writer." It sounds better that way.
True, she's studying missiology (the study of missions) because she's got a heart for missions. True she wants to care for orphans. True she loves Compassion as much as I do. Maybe true she'll start her own orphanage and maybe true it'll be in that specific African country. But who knows.
God does.
And right now, He's not telling.
For either of us.
<>< Katie
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
(Not) Getting Murdered
No matter how many times David said, "We're not going to get murdered," I was still scared.
He was my navigator telling me to drive two miles down a dirt road in the dark.
It was kind of like driving on ice in that I didn't exactly have complete control of the car. And it was kind of like terrifying in that we were smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Did I mention it was nighttime and we were alone? Well, except for the truck following us, driven by the murderer.
For two miles, the conversation essentially went:
Katie: We're gonna die.
David: No, we're not.
Katie: We're gonna get murdered.
David: We're not gonna get murdered.
Yet still I kept driving.
I trust David, and I trusted he wasn't really leading me down a dangerous path.
If I trusted David, how could I be so fearful?
Well, I was in a very scary situation: I was driving down a dirt road with my brights on but not in complete control of the car, in the middle of nowhere to a house where I've never been, at night, with a guy who is older, bigger, and wiser than I am, and we were being followed. Maybe not the smartest decision of my life.
In ASL, the words for FEAR and TRUST are opposites. You can't sign them both at the same time (I tried). Fear and trust cannot co-exist.
Yet still they did in my car.
Still they do in my life.
I'm in a scary situation. After four long years I graduated with a degree that lacks a defined job at the end. I'm working as a freelance writer and not making enough to pay for food.
But if I say I trust the Lord, how can I be so fearful?
I am not the driver and not the navigator in this life. I'm just a passenger letting the Lord take this car wherever He desires.
But that doesn't mean I'm doing it quietly. I'm crying, I'm protesting, I'm convinced I'm gonna die. I have dug my heels into the ground, literally shouted naughty words at the Lord, and nearly punched someone in frustration.
That isn't trust. That's protesting. That's complaining.
God and I have this conversation regularly:
Katie: This is scary.
God: Just trust Me.
Katie: I want to but I can't. I'm scared.
God: I love you perfectly. Please, just trust Me.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot merge fear and trust. Something's got to give.
On Saturday, I surrendered to trust David, let go of the fear, and kept driving.
The dirt road did eventually end. Surprise: we didn't get murdered! The truck following us was driven by Cody who, turns out, is not a murderer. (Well, if he is, he's a very bad one since he didn't seize a perfect opportunity).
The road forked and BOOM there was a house with lights on, the door open, and the host and hostess inviting us in.
Daily surrender to trust the Lord doesn't mean this bumpy path of unemployment is going to end. God doesn't promise a smooth journey. He does promise that He'll journey with us.
So far, He has.
Life ain't great. But still every morning the sun rises (proof enough of God's faithfulness), I'm still breathing and, eventually, I can pull myself from the five layers of blankets. Some days come with more self-confidence than others but each day a new chance to proclaim His faithfulness even in the desert.
I protested with David but kept going. I'm protesting the Lord but still stepping forwards in obedience.
What's scary about obedience is the lack of control and the lack of knowing where you're going.
The house David, Cody, and I arrived at was home to a family who welcomed us with open arms, fed us a delicious dinner, and let us raid their game room.
Worth it.
If we continue in obedience, God promises that some day we will arrive Home to His open arms.
Luckily, we don't have to wait until then. In every step we can cling to His perfect love. In obedience and even in failure, He's RIGHT THERE.
That is hope enough to keep on truckin'.
Putting one foot in front of the other and taking each day one step at a time,
<>< Katie
He was my navigator telling me to drive two miles down a dirt road in the dark.
It was kind of like driving on ice in that I didn't exactly have complete control of the car. And it was kind of like terrifying in that we were smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Did I mention it was nighttime and we were alone? Well, except for the truck following us, driven by the murderer.
For two miles, the conversation essentially went:
Katie: We're gonna die.
David: No, we're not.
Katie: We're gonna get murdered.
David: We're not gonna get murdered.
Yet still I kept driving.
I trust David, and I trusted he wasn't really leading me down a dangerous path.
If I trusted David, how could I be so fearful?
Well, I was in a very scary situation: I was driving down a dirt road with my brights on but not in complete control of the car, in the middle of nowhere to a house where I've never been, at night, with a guy who is older, bigger, and wiser than I am, and we were being followed. Maybe not the smartest decision of my life.
In ASL, the words for FEAR and TRUST are opposites. You can't sign them both at the same time (I tried). Fear and trust cannot co-exist.
Yet still they did in my car.
Still they do in my life.
I'm in a scary situation. After four long years I graduated with a degree that lacks a defined job at the end. I'm working as a freelance writer and not making enough to pay for food.
But if I say I trust the Lord, how can I be so fearful?
I am not the driver and not the navigator in this life. I'm just a passenger letting the Lord take this car wherever He desires.
But that doesn't mean I'm doing it quietly. I'm crying, I'm protesting, I'm convinced I'm gonna die. I have dug my heels into the ground, literally shouted naughty words at the Lord, and nearly punched someone in frustration.
That isn't trust. That's protesting. That's complaining.
God and I have this conversation regularly:
Katie: This is scary.
God: Just trust Me.
Katie: I want to but I can't. I'm scared.
God: I love you perfectly. Please, just trust Me.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot merge fear and trust. Something's got to give.
On Saturday, I surrendered to trust David, let go of the fear, and kept driving.
The dirt road did eventually end. Surprise: we didn't get murdered! The truck following us was driven by Cody who, turns out, is not a murderer. (Well, if he is, he's a very bad one since he didn't seize a perfect opportunity).
The road forked and BOOM there was a house with lights on, the door open, and the host and hostess inviting us in.
Daily surrender to trust the Lord doesn't mean this bumpy path of unemployment is going to end. God doesn't promise a smooth journey. He does promise that He'll journey with us.
So far, He has.
Life ain't great. But still every morning the sun rises (proof enough of God's faithfulness), I'm still breathing and, eventually, I can pull myself from the five layers of blankets. Some days come with more self-confidence than others but each day a new chance to proclaim His faithfulness even in the desert.
I protested with David but kept going. I'm protesting the Lord but still stepping forwards in obedience.
What's scary about obedience is the lack of control and the lack of knowing where you're going.
The house David, Cody, and I arrived at was home to a family who welcomed us with open arms, fed us a delicious dinner, and let us raid their game room.
 |
| This is less than half of their game collection. |
If we continue in obedience, God promises that some day we will arrive Home to His open arms.
Luckily, we don't have to wait until then. In every step we can cling to His perfect love. In obedience and even in failure, He's RIGHT THERE.
That is hope enough to keep on truckin'.
Putting one foot in front of the other and taking each day one step at a time,
<>< Katie
Friday, January 20, 2012
What More Do You Want
"What more do you want from God?" Neal asked the congregation. We all came from very different backgrounds united only in the Lord.
"¿Qué más quiere de Dios?" Manolo translated.
I didn't need to wait for the translation before I began making a mental list of things I wanted from God. All selfish things, too. I was in Nicaragua and still had an out-standing balance on my trip. I had applied to five graduate schools and was still hoping for acceptances. I was hoping to head to China in the summer and was waiting for those pieces to fall into place.
"He's already give you Jesus." Neal's words slapped my list-making face. I needed to hear them again.
"Él ya te dio Jesús."
What more can I want from God when He's already give me the best He can: His Son. He's already given me all that I need, and it's called grace. He's engraved my name on the palm of His hand, and I'm asking for money. He's given me purpose, hope, and a future and there I sat in an uncomfortable Nicaraguan folding chair asking for more.
I felt naked, like my selfish, dirty list had been broadcast by the broken LCD projector. In a way, they were. They were available for One to know.
I like to think God chuckled when He watched me frantically try to erase them, delete them, unthink them.
I gave up on my list that day. I took peace in Abba giving me His Son. What more could I ever need or dare to want?
Days like today it's easy to start making a list again. I want this job interview to go well. I want to see her joy and her smile on this earth once again. I want reassurance that God truly is good and in control.
I want everyone to know the hope we all have in Jesus. Jesús. 耶稣.
I want all of God's children to know how loved they are by their Father. I want them to know forgiveness as intimately as I do. To know they don't need any more than that.
Abba, use me to reach Your people. May my life show Your love today and every day. In the States and across the world. When things go well and when dreams aren't achieved. Lord, let my love for You be contagious. When people see me may they have no choice but to love You more. Draw them into Your loving arms, Lord. May they know that no matter what life brings, Jesus is enough. Our greatest need has been satisfied. Thank You for Jesus. Teach me to remember that He is enough, always more than enough.
This is my prayer. My hope. My desire.
<>< Katie
"¿Qué más quiere de Dios?" Manolo translated.
I didn't need to wait for the translation before I began making a mental list of things I wanted from God. All selfish things, too. I was in Nicaragua and still had an out-standing balance on my trip. I had applied to five graduate schools and was still hoping for acceptances. I was hoping to head to China in the summer and was waiting for those pieces to fall into place.
"He's already give you Jesus." Neal's words slapped my list-making face. I needed to hear them again.
"Él ya te dio Jesús."
What more can I want from God when He's already give me the best He can: His Son. He's already given me all that I need, and it's called grace. He's engraved my name on the palm of His hand, and I'm asking for money. He's given me purpose, hope, and a future and there I sat in an uncomfortable Nicaraguan folding chair asking for more.
I felt naked, like my selfish, dirty list had been broadcast by the broken LCD projector. In a way, they were. They were available for One to know.
I like to think God chuckled when He watched me frantically try to erase them, delete them, unthink them.
I gave up on my list that day. I took peace in Abba giving me His Son. What more could I ever need or dare to want?
Days like today it's easy to start making a list again. I want this job interview to go well. I want to see her joy and her smile on this earth once again. I want reassurance that God truly is good and in control.
I want everyone to know the hope we all have in Jesus. Jesús. 耶稣.
I want all of God's children to know how loved they are by their Father. I want them to know forgiveness as intimately as I do. To know they don't need any more than that.
Abba, use me to reach Your people. May my life show Your love today and every day. In the States and across the world. When things go well and when dreams aren't achieved. Lord, let my love for You be contagious. When people see me may they have no choice but to love You more. Draw them into Your loving arms, Lord. May they know that no matter what life brings, Jesus is enough. Our greatest need has been satisfied. Thank You for Jesus. Teach me to remember that He is enough, always more than enough.
This is my prayer. My hope. My desire.
<>< Katie
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Dear 2012
Dear 2012,
This year we welcome your arrival with New York. No waiting in the past to see how your first hour turns out before we take the leap.
But it's ok. I'm ready to welcome you, 2012. I think.
Your sister 2011's report card reads, "Not living up to potential."
She brought the change she promised but not the good kind.
Throughout 2011, the word I kept returning to was: faithful. Would I be faithful to the Lord even when life was less kind? Would God be true to the promise of His faithfulness?
Faithful.
Crossing into your realms, 2012, is an action of fear. An action of trust. A myriad of feelings. A juxtaposition of emotion. I am concerned about what you will bring.
Yet still I dare to hope. You bring with you new opportunities, renewed passions, and uncontainable excitement. While you may not look exactly like I would hope or anticipate, I step into you with confidence.
Hope.
That's what I feel when I look to you, 2012. I hope for many of the same things as last year: a job, a boy, a future. But, above all, I hope for the Lord. I hope to seek and to see Him in the good, the bad, and the ugly. Through tears of joy and tears of pain, I want to gaze into the eyes of my Abba Father.
I hope to dwell in the shelter of the Most High, to rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I hope to be calmed with His love and be delighted with His songs.
I hope. In Him.
And that is enough.
"Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness; His mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in Him!'" Lamentations 3:21-24 NLT
With hope,
<>< Katie
This year we welcome your arrival with New York. No waiting in the past to see how your first hour turns out before we take the leap.
But it's ok. I'm ready to welcome you, 2012. I think.
Your sister 2011's report card reads, "Not living up to potential."
She brought the change she promised but not the good kind.
Throughout 2011, the word I kept returning to was: faithful. Would I be faithful to the Lord even when life was less kind? Would God be true to the promise of His faithfulness?
Faithful.
Crossing into your realms, 2012, is an action of fear. An action of trust. A myriad of feelings. A juxtaposition of emotion. I am concerned about what you will bring.
Yet still I dare to hope. You bring with you new opportunities, renewed passions, and uncontainable excitement. While you may not look exactly like I would hope or anticipate, I step into you with confidence.
Hope.
That's what I feel when I look to you, 2012. I hope for many of the same things as last year: a job, a boy, a future. But, above all, I hope for the Lord. I hope to seek and to see Him in the good, the bad, and the ugly. Through tears of joy and tears of pain, I want to gaze into the eyes of my Abba Father.
I hope to dwell in the shelter of the Most High, to rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I hope to be calmed with His love and be delighted with His songs.
I hope. In Him.
And that is enough.
"Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness; His mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in Him!'" Lamentations 3:21-24 NLT
With hope,
<>< Katie
Monday, December 26, 2011
Journey Around the World
All too often people go on mission trips expecting to be taking Jesus to another country, another part of the world.
While there are areas of the world who have never been told the name of Jesus, short-term missionaries often arrive and realized He is already there.
The Lord is working worldwide, and we are oblivious.
I want to offer all of what I have and to tell His story.
In 2012 we're going to take a blog-series journey around the world. We're going to see God working worldwide through the eyes of our brothers and sisters abroad.
Every Monday for the next fifty-two weeks we're going to be headed to places like the Philippines, Zimbabwe, Guatemala, the Congo, India, Haiti, etc.
These worldwide journeys are coming in the form of guest posts, interviews, and photo diaries from people in a variety of stages of life. And I'm "sups excite" (that's "super excited") about it!
Are you willing to get on the plane with me?
Bon voyage y Dios le bendiga,
<>< Katie
PS: I can't do this without your help. I don't have fifty-two weeks worth of international contacts, so if you have ideas, I'd love to chat. Shoot me an email at KatieAxelson[at]gmail[dot]com. Thanks!
PPS: This blog series needs a title. Any suggestions?
While there are areas of the world who have never been told the name of Jesus, short-term missionaries often arrive and realized He is already there.
The Lord is working worldwide, and we are oblivious.
I want to offer all of what I have and to tell His story.
In 2012 we're going to take a blog-series journey around the world. We're going to see God working worldwide through the eyes of our brothers and sisters abroad.
Every Monday for the next fifty-two weeks we're going to be headed to places like the Philippines, Zimbabwe, Guatemala, the Congo, India, Haiti, etc.
These worldwide journeys are coming in the form of guest posts, interviews, and photo diaries from people in a variety of stages of life. And I'm "sups excite" (that's "super excited") about it!
Are you willing to get on the plane with me?
Bon voyage y Dios le bendiga,
<>< Katie
PS: I can't do this without your help. I don't have fifty-two weeks worth of international contacts, so if you have ideas, I'd love to chat. Shoot me an email at KatieAxelson[at]gmail[dot]com. Thanks!
PPS: This blog series needs a title. Any suggestions?
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Sometime just prior to Halloween I heard my first Christmas carol of the season. It flipped a switch inside of me and I was ready for Christmas.
Of course, my gifts weren't purchased and I was pleasantly surprised to feel 40 degree days rather than the 4 below I was expecting, but all through November I waited anxiously for the snow and for the rest of the world to be ready to play Christmas songs.
Yet now it's the night before Christmas, the tree is decorated, the gifts are wrapped, the last of the cookies are in the oven, and the snow gently falling. But I am ready to put on the brakes.
Christmas isn't the most wonderful time of the year when you're unemployed. Rather, it's a brutal reminder of your lack of income, your need to pinch every penny, and your wreath decorating your parents' home rather than your apartment.
Giving up isn't an option, but hope is fleeting. Still I pray "Thy will be done" and "Send me." Still I have a nice collection of rejection letters.
I don't mean to be all doom and gloom, but, honestly, singing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" is lying through my two front teeth.
I try not to linger too long in this world of overwhelming pessimism. Life is hard right now, and I'm sick of repeating myself about my failing job search. I'm well beyond ready to talk about something else.
So let's talk about some other people whose world may have also seemed overwhelmingly pessimistic.
Mary. She's pregnant and engaged but her fiancé isn't the father. I bet she got sick of trying to explain that.
Joseph. Someone else impregnated his betrothed. Well, isn't that a sticky situation?
Herod. Some baby is lobbying for his throne (or so he thinks).
The inn keeper. The "No vacancy" sign is illuminated yet still there's a very, very pregnant woman and her man on the front porch.
The sheep, oxen, and other stable animals. Um, hello, there's a baby in their breakfast bowl.
Jesus. God Himself is being shoved into the skin of an infant. Ouch.
The Christmas story is not exactly what the Jews were expecting. Nope, rewind. Christmas was absolutely nothing like what the Jews have been anticipating, the hope-filled stories they've been passing down for generations.
A king was supposed to come to rescue them. Fallen cities would be restored, a temple would be rebuilt, death would be destroyed, and peace truly would exist on earth.
The long-awaited Messiah... a baby. It didn't make sense.
Emmanuel--God with us---is sleeping in a dirty cow trough.
Yup, definitely not the most wonderful time of the year.
I'm so glad Mary, Joseph, Jesus, the shepherds, et al. didn't call it quits, didn't tell God how to do His job. Even in these less than ideal conditions, hope shone brighter than the star illuminating the sky.
Like the shepherds, I am willing to drop everything and sing praises to the One who deserves them.
Like the inn keeper, I offer all of what I have, even if it doesn't seem like much.
Like Joseph, I desire to be obedient even when it looks very different than I expected.
Like Mary, I want to be faithful to what God has asked of me
Like Jesus, I seek to do what needs to be done no matter how uncomfortable, how agonizing it may be.
And, unlike Herod, I am not going to take matters into my own hands.
Maybe the most wonderful time of the year doesn't mean a walking in a winter wonderland.
Maybe it means hope and anticipation for something new. It means finding peace and comfort in God's promise never to abandon us. It means joy even in life's less than comfortable moments. It means resting in the loving arms of the Father.
The most wonderful time of the year is any moment when you remember that Christ truly is Emmanuel, God with us, both now and forevermore.
Amen.
Of course, my gifts weren't purchased and I was pleasantly surprised to feel 40 degree days rather than the 4 below I was expecting, but all through November I waited anxiously for the snow and for the rest of the world to be ready to play Christmas songs.
Yet now it's the night before Christmas, the tree is decorated, the gifts are wrapped, the last of the cookies are in the oven, and the snow gently falling. But I am ready to put on the brakes.
Christmas isn't the most wonderful time of the year when you're unemployed. Rather, it's a brutal reminder of your lack of income, your need to pinch every penny, and your wreath decorating your parents' home rather than your apartment.
Giving up isn't an option, but hope is fleeting. Still I pray "Thy will be done" and "Send me." Still I have a nice collection of rejection letters.
I don't mean to be all doom and gloom, but, honestly, singing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" is lying through my two front teeth.
I try not to linger too long in this world of overwhelming pessimism. Life is hard right now, and I'm sick of repeating myself about my failing job search. I'm well beyond ready to talk about something else.
So let's talk about some other people whose world may have also seemed overwhelmingly pessimistic.
Mary. She's pregnant and engaged but her fiancé isn't the father. I bet she got sick of trying to explain that.
Joseph. Someone else impregnated his betrothed. Well, isn't that a sticky situation?
Herod. Some baby is lobbying for his throne (or so he thinks).
The inn keeper. The "No vacancy" sign is illuminated yet still there's a very, very pregnant woman and her man on the front porch.
The sheep, oxen, and other stable animals. Um, hello, there's a baby in their breakfast bowl.
Jesus. God Himself is being shoved into the skin of an infant. Ouch.
The Christmas story is not exactly what the Jews were expecting. Nope, rewind. Christmas was absolutely nothing like what the Jews have been anticipating, the hope-filled stories they've been passing down for generations.
A king was supposed to come to rescue them. Fallen cities would be restored, a temple would be rebuilt, death would be destroyed, and peace truly would exist on earth.
The long-awaited Messiah... a baby. It didn't make sense.
Emmanuel--God with us---is sleeping in a dirty cow trough.
Yup, definitely not the most wonderful time of the year.
I'm so glad Mary, Joseph, Jesus, the shepherds, et al. didn't call it quits, didn't tell God how to do His job. Even in these less than ideal conditions, hope shone brighter than the star illuminating the sky.
Like the shepherds, I am willing to drop everything and sing praises to the One who deserves them.
Like the inn keeper, I offer all of what I have, even if it doesn't seem like much.
Like Joseph, I desire to be obedient even when it looks very different than I expected.
Like Mary, I want to be faithful to what God has asked of me
Like Jesus, I seek to do what needs to be done no matter how uncomfortable, how agonizing it may be.
And, unlike Herod, I am not going to take matters into my own hands.
Maybe the most wonderful time of the year doesn't mean a walking in a winter wonderland.
Maybe it means hope and anticipation for something new. It means finding peace and comfort in God's promise never to abandon us. It means joy even in life's less than comfortable moments. It means resting in the loving arms of the Father.
The most wonderful time of the year is any moment when you remember that Christ truly is Emmanuel, God with us, both now and forevermore.
Amen.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
In the Arms of the Father
The plane was preparing to land and the man across the aisle from me frantically fastened his toddler back into the window seat. The little girl began to whimper.
"Shh, shhhh, shhhh," the man said.
The girl whimpered more. The shushing wasn't working. Eventually the man unbuckled the child and pulled her into his lap.
The whimpering stopped. The child was no longer afraid. She was in her daddy's arms.
That's who I want to be: the little girl perfectly content my Heavenly Daddy's arms.
Even when I don't know where my next paycheck is coming from. Even when I don't know when I'll get to see my friends (read: family) again.
Are you willing to curl up in the lap of your Abba Father?
Even when finals are hard. Even when your kids are disobedient. Even when you're not sure if you'll be able to pay for the avocados to make the guacamole you promised. Even when life is hard.
"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" 1 John 3:1a NIV
I pray in marker.
Putting prayers on paper prevents me from getting distracted (raise your hand if you have the attention span of a butterfly when praying). It's childish and messy to use a thin-line Crayola on college-ruled paper. It is good.
Prayer is messy. Life is messy.
Like a child whose hands are more colorful than the paper, I stretch them up to my Daddy and let Him shush me with His perfect love.
"The LORD your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.”
Zephaniah 3:17 NIV
Just as the daddy on the airplane cared for his little girl, all the more will my Heavenly Daddy care for me (and you).
Even through our childish fits about things not going our way. Even through our crying and panicking when there is nothing to fear.
Take a seat in His lap, stretch your marker-hands to the sky, let Him hold you, His child. Take peace and comfort in His love.
I do.
Love,
<>< Katie
"Shh, shhhh, shhhh," the man said.
The girl whimpered more. The shushing wasn't working. Eventually the man unbuckled the child and pulled her into his lap.
The whimpering stopped. The child was no longer afraid. She was in her daddy's arms.
That's who I want to be: the little girl perfectly content my Heavenly Daddy's arms.
Even when I don't know where my next paycheck is coming from. Even when I don't know when I'll get to see my friends (read: family) again.
Are you willing to curl up in the lap of your Abba Father?
Even when finals are hard. Even when your kids are disobedient. Even when you're not sure if you'll be able to pay for the avocados to make the guacamole you promised. Even when life is hard.
"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" 1 John 3:1a NIV
I pray in marker.
Putting prayers on paper prevents me from getting distracted (raise your hand if you have the attention span of a butterfly when praying). It's childish and messy to use a thin-line Crayola on college-ruled paper. It is good.
Prayer is messy. Life is messy.
Like a child whose hands are more colorful than the paper, I stretch them up to my Daddy and let Him shush me with His perfect love.
"The LORD your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.”
Zephaniah 3:17 NIV
Just as the daddy on the airplane cared for his little girl, all the more will my Heavenly Daddy care for me (and you).
Even through our childish fits about things not going our way. Even through our crying and panicking when there is nothing to fear.
Take a seat in His lap, stretch your marker-hands to the sky, let Him hold you, His child. Take peace and comfort in His love.
I do.
Love,
<>< Katie
Monday, December 12, 2011
Missing Spanish
This is a little weird to be confessing because I never dreamed these words would leave my mouth: I miss Spanish.
When I miss Spanish, I send a letter to Smile or Maria (my Compassion sisters in El Salvador and Columbia). They get a lot of letters.
When I miss Spanish, I pull out my Spanish-English Bible and pray to the God who understands espanglish.
When I miss Spanish, I read about what God is doing in paises hispanohablantes (Spanish-speaking countries).
When I miss Spanish, I seek out every opportunity to use it. From a simple facebook message to a real life conversation with a missionary confined by a language barrier.
The Spanish I miss is not a language learned in a classroom all the way through middle school, high school, and college. It's the ability to make a difference I learned from my community's food pantry, in a dusty school yard in Nicaragua, and through fútbol games in Guatemala.
Why do I confine the ability to make a difference to a language?
Why do I not miss serving the Lord in my mother tongue?
Why does my second language make me more bold? More so, why am I more reserved in English? After all, I don't grasp Spanish nearly as well as I do English which means the opportunity to make a complete fool of myself are all the more numerous.
Yet still I don't care.
"But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you. And you will be My witnesses, telling people about Me everywhere—in Jerusalem, throughout Judea, in Samaria, and to the ends of the earth." Acts 1:8 NLT
Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.
That's locally, nationalwide, internationally, and to the ends of the earth.
God, I'm sick of being timid and shy in English. Give me the passion for Your people here in the United States like You've given me for hispanohablantes worldwide. Help me be Your witness right here in "Jerusalem."
<>< Katie
When I miss Spanish, I send a letter to Smile or Maria (my Compassion sisters in El Salvador and Columbia). They get a lot of letters.
When I miss Spanish, I pull out my Spanish-English Bible and pray to the God who understands espanglish.
When I miss Spanish, I read about what God is doing in paises hispanohablantes (Spanish-speaking countries).
When I miss Spanish, I seek out every opportunity to use it. From a simple facebook message to a real life conversation with a missionary confined by a language barrier.
The Spanish I miss is not a language learned in a classroom all the way through middle school, high school, and college. It's the ability to make a difference I learned from my community's food pantry, in a dusty school yard in Nicaragua, and through fútbol games in Guatemala.
Why do I confine the ability to make a difference to a language?
Why do I not miss serving the Lord in my mother tongue?
Why does my second language make me more bold? More so, why am I more reserved in English? After all, I don't grasp Spanish nearly as well as I do English which means the opportunity to make a complete fool of myself are all the more numerous.
Yet still I don't care.
"But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you. And you will be My witnesses, telling people about Me everywhere—in Jerusalem, throughout Judea, in Samaria, and to the ends of the earth." Acts 1:8 NLT
Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.
That's locally, nationalwide, internationally, and to the ends of the earth.
God, I'm sick of being timid and shy in English. Give me the passion for Your people here in the United States like You've given me for hispanohablantes worldwide. Help me be Your witness right here in "Jerusalem."
<>< Katie
Monday, December 5, 2011
Losing Narnia
At the end of Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Aslan tells Lucy and Edmund that they will never return to Narnia. Lucy is devastated. But then she confesses it's not actually Narnia she wants, it's Aslan. Aslan says he's in the other world too only by a different name. In fact, Lucy and Edmund only spent time in Narnia so that they could better recognize Aslan in the other world.
I understand Lucy's disappointment in never being able to return to Narnia. I just graduated from a university I love very much, and God has asked me (at least for now) to give it up. If you've a regular visitor, you are familiar with my moping. If you're new, there have been lots of tears. I'm sure the feeling is similar to Lucy's leaving Narnia for the final time.
What I miss about my university is the people--their love, their transparency, and their friendships. Yet, I also miss being able to see the Lord everywhere, to not be afraid to vulnerably ask for prayer ... in the caf, to lock myself in the prayer room for an hour or four for some privacy with God.
Yet maybe God put me there so that I would better learn to identify Him here (wherever "here" is this week). I learned some awesome things, saw Him work in miraculous ways, and felt His presence like I never have before. But I now have a responsibility to take what I learned, what I saw, and what I experienced and apply it elsewhere. God is not only to be found in a one stoplight town that shuts down half of its sewer when students go home during the summer.
God can be, has been, and is found here, too.
But sometimes I'm too busy mourning the loss of Narnia that I forget that Aslan is on the move right here with me in this world.
<>< Katie
PS: Have you taken a minute to give me your opinion about my blog? I really appreciate your feedback-both good and bad! Thanks!
I understand Lucy's disappointment in never being able to return to Narnia. I just graduated from a university I love very much, and God has asked me (at least for now) to give it up. If you've a regular visitor, you are familiar with my moping. If you're new, there have been lots of tears. I'm sure the feeling is similar to Lucy's leaving Narnia for the final time.
What I miss about my university is the people--their love, their transparency, and their friendships. Yet, I also miss being able to see the Lord everywhere, to not be afraid to vulnerably ask for prayer ... in the caf, to lock myself in the prayer room for an hour or four for some privacy with God.
Yet maybe God put me there so that I would better learn to identify Him here (wherever "here" is this week). I learned some awesome things, saw Him work in miraculous ways, and felt His presence like I never have before. But I now have a responsibility to take what I learned, what I saw, and what I experienced and apply it elsewhere. God is not only to be found in a one stoplight town that shuts down half of its sewer when students go home during the summer.
God can be, has been, and is found here, too.
But sometimes I'm too busy mourning the loss of Narnia that I forget that Aslan is on the move right here with me in this world.
<>< Katie
PS: Have you taken a minute to give me your opinion about my blog? I really appreciate your feedback-both good and bad! Thanks!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Pray for China
I'm so discouraged as I look back on my time in China and remember the HUGE need for the Lord that still exists in that country.
Sure, we saw some amazing things: hundreds of believers gathered freely to worship, a local church being gifted land and money to replace that which was usurped from them 30 years ago, the opportunity to give away Chinese-English New Testaments.
Yet there is so much work left to be done. So many people who have never even heard the name of Jesus.
When we went to China, they told us we would (in all likelihood) not see the fruits of our labor. We were not even planting seeds. Rather, we were plowing ground, removing rocks, and preparing for future seed planters.
We did not see many fruits of our labor. Yet He will. He will use our efforts, our energies, and our work. That's what we've prayed. We've seen it in small ways but the Lord is not done in China.
Can you do me a favor right now and pray for China? Pray that the Lord used and continues to use what we gave (all that we had). That He, not we, made a difference. Pray for our friends. Pray for the students. Pray for the Chinese believers and foreign believers. Pray for the unbelievers. Pray for the government. Pray for the Lord to be honored and praised in new ways.
He's God of that city, too.
Thank you!
<>< Katie
PS: If you want to be part of the ground plowing, send me an email and I'll hook you up with the organization we went through as volunteer English teachers.
Sure, we saw some amazing things: hundreds of believers gathered freely to worship, a local church being gifted land and money to replace that which was usurped from them 30 years ago, the opportunity to give away Chinese-English New Testaments.
Yet there is so much work left to be done. So many people who have never even heard the name of Jesus.
When we went to China, they told us we would (in all likelihood) not see the fruits of our labor. We were not even planting seeds. Rather, we were plowing ground, removing rocks, and preparing for future seed planters.
We did not see many fruits of our labor. Yet He will. He will use our efforts, our energies, and our work. That's what we've prayed. We've seen it in small ways but the Lord is not done in China.
Can you do me a favor right now and pray for China? Pray that the Lord used and continues to use what we gave (all that we had). That He, not we, made a difference. Pray for our friends. Pray for the students. Pray for the Chinese believers and foreign believers. Pray for the unbelievers. Pray for the government. Pray for the Lord to be honored and praised in new ways.
He's God of that city, too.
Thank you!
<>< Katie
PS: If you want to be part of the ground plowing, send me an email and I'll hook you up with the organization we went through as volunteer English teachers.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Why Not Today?
"You need a new phone."
I've been told that regularly for the last two years. They're right: I do need a new phone. When I started college the question was always, "Is that the new model?" Now that I've graduated, same phone in pocket, the question has become "When do you get an upgrade?"
They want me to make the leap into the twenty-first century and go from a dumb phone that only texts and calls to a smart phone that does everything except brush your teeth for you.
"With as much time as you spend on Facebook and Twitter, you're going to love it!"
That's what they all say. And they're probably right. I wish I could Tweet on the go, always had my email at my fingertips, and my text message inbox didn't remain at 98 percent full. The upgrade won't break my budget and the thirty dollars a month data plan is feasible.
Weeks of second-guessing and questioning led up to the moment when I signed the check. Knowing full well what I was doing, I handed it to Brent. He handed me a receipt.
Smile* was mine.
My check was not for thirty dollars. It was for thirty-eight. If I could feasibly pay thirty dollars a month just to have the internet with me wherever I went, how could I not spend thirty-eight dollars a month making sure a child had food?
For years I have been the primary letter writer for Maria, our family's sponsored child in Columbia. That means the misunderstanding about us having fourteen grandchildren... yeah, I'm culpable.
I knew someday I'd sponsor a child through Compassion. The question that ragged on my heart was: Why is that someday not today? I was out of excuses.
For a dollar and twenty-five cents a day, I can provide Smile with food. That's not even the cost of one cup of coffee. That's one small fries from McDonald's.
Let's be real: I don't have a lot of money. But I have enough. I'm not worrying about going hungry. Smile is.
Katie: God, why are you providing for me but not for Your children in third world countries? Is food not a necessity?
God: I am providing. Katie, I am providing you.
It's going to be a sacrifice. I want (borderline need) a new phone, but it's going to have to wait.
There's a little girl in El Salvador who needs an education. She needs medical care. She needs hope, esperanza. She needs to know someone cares. That someone is an unemployed hispanohablante in the US. That Someone is her Heavenly Father.
Why not today?
<>< Katie
*not her real name
PS: This is my story of how God led me to child sponsorship through Compassion. It might be reckless to commit to $38/month with no income. But I know the Lord and saw His hand in this decision long before I signed the check. I trust He will provide, and I've seen Him do so already. If that means I have to eat peanut butter and jelly for a week (I hate pbj) so Smile can eat rice and beans, so be it.
I've been told that regularly for the last two years. They're right: I do need a new phone. When I started college the question was always, "Is that the new model?" Now that I've graduated, same phone in pocket, the question has become "When do you get an upgrade?"
They want me to make the leap into the twenty-first century and go from a dumb phone that only texts and calls to a smart phone that does everything except brush your teeth for you.
"With as much time as you spend on Facebook and Twitter, you're going to love it!"
That's what they all say. And they're probably right. I wish I could Tweet on the go, always had my email at my fingertips, and my text message inbox didn't remain at 98 percent full. The upgrade won't break my budget and the thirty dollars a month data plan is feasible.
Weeks of second-guessing and questioning led up to the moment when I signed the check. Knowing full well what I was doing, I handed it to Brent. He handed me a receipt.
Smile* was mine.
My check was not for thirty dollars. It was for thirty-eight. If I could feasibly pay thirty dollars a month just to have the internet with me wherever I went, how could I not spend thirty-eight dollars a month making sure a child had food?
For years I have been the primary letter writer for Maria, our family's sponsored child in Columbia. That means the misunderstanding about us having fourteen grandchildren... yeah, I'm culpable.
I knew someday I'd sponsor a child through Compassion. The question that ragged on my heart was: Why is that someday not today? I was out of excuses.
For a dollar and twenty-five cents a day, I can provide Smile with food. That's not even the cost of one cup of coffee. That's one small fries from McDonald's.
Let's be real: I don't have a lot of money. But I have enough. I'm not worrying about going hungry. Smile is.
Katie: God, why are you providing for me but not for Your children in third world countries? Is food not a necessity?
God: I am providing. Katie, I am providing you.
It's going to be a sacrifice. I want (borderline need) a new phone, but it's going to have to wait.
There's a little girl in El Salvador who needs an education. She needs medical care. She needs hope, esperanza. She needs to know someone cares. That someone is an unemployed hispanohablante in the US. That Someone is her Heavenly Father.
Why not today?
<>< Katie
*not her real name
PS: This is my story of how God led me to child sponsorship through Compassion. It might be reckless to commit to $38/month with no income. But I know the Lord and saw His hand in this decision long before I signed the check. I trust He will provide, and I've seen Him do so already. If that means I have to eat peanut butter and jelly for a week (I hate pbj) so Smile can eat rice and beans, so be it.
Monday, November 21, 2011
What Would You Write?
Write what you know.
That's what writers are always told. I'm not good at following that advice. I always seem to start writing stories that I have no authority to write, horrors I can barely imagine.
What do I know? I know what it's like to go to a college prep school. I know what it's like to live with seven other girls in a four-bedroom apartment. I know what it's like to attend fifteen concerts by the same artist.
What I know is boring, at least to me.
Who wants to read a fictional work based on the reality of being an unemployed recent grad? Not me, that's for sure.
But it got me thinking: if I were the author who got my fictional character into this mess, how would I get her out?
Would I turn one of her cold-calling strangers turn into a job offer? (In this economy?)
Would I send a knight in shining armor to whisk her away to marital bliss? (That sounds pleasant, cheesy, and unrealistic)
Would I have her blog discovered and novel picked up by Huge Name Publishing House and it become a best seller? (I'm just dreaming all possibilities here)
Would I send her to graduate school, the international mission field, or a homeless shelter?
Would I make her sulk and wait? Wonder and hope? Would I teach her about trust and obedience?
I am not the Author of this life. And I guess that's a good thing since none of these options seem good and viable at the moment.
I am the protagonist in this lifestory, trusting the Author's plan. Unlike me, He doesn't change His mind, He doesn't kill characters for plot excitement, and He definitely doesn't abandon half-finished stories.
And that, my friends, brings me hope.
<>< Katie
That's what writers are always told. I'm not good at following that advice. I always seem to start writing stories that I have no authority to write, horrors I can barely imagine.
What do I know? I know what it's like to go to a college prep school. I know what it's like to live with seven other girls in a four-bedroom apartment. I know what it's like to attend fifteen concerts by the same artist.
What I know is boring, at least to me.
Who wants to read a fictional work based on the reality of being an unemployed recent grad? Not me, that's for sure.
But it got me thinking: if I were the author who got my fictional character into this mess, how would I get her out?
Would I turn one of her cold-calling strangers turn into a job offer? (In this economy?)
Would I send a knight in shining armor to whisk her away to marital bliss? (That sounds pleasant, cheesy, and unrealistic)
Would I have her blog discovered and novel picked up by Huge Name Publishing House and it become a best seller? (I'm just dreaming all possibilities here)
Would I send her to graduate school, the international mission field, or a homeless shelter?
Would I make her sulk and wait? Wonder and hope? Would I teach her about trust and obedience?
I am not the Author of this life. And I guess that's a good thing since none of these options seem good and viable at the moment.
I am the protagonist in this lifestory, trusting the Author's plan. Unlike me, He doesn't change His mind, He doesn't kill characters for plot excitement, and He definitely doesn't abandon half-finished stories.
And that, my friends, brings me hope.
<>< Katie
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Cup
Something crunches beneath my tires as I parallel park outside of a Christian bookstore. Coming around to pay the meter, I see the crunching came from what used to be a coffee cup that is now smashed to smithereens. Clearly, I was not the first one to run it over.
"You alone hold my broken cup."
I can't help but smile at the irony of the moment. Over coffee a few days before, I had a conversation about (among other things) parking meters, Christian books, and cracked cups.
"You alone hold my broken cup. My heart's so dusty and dry."
Two days earlier I stood in the audience and listened to singer/songwriter Peder Eide talk about cracked cups.
We all have cups. God pours out love, affirmation, encouragement intending to fill our cup until it overflows. Yet fear, abandonment, rejection, etc. have cracked our cups. Some cracks are bigger than others yet still the goodness of God leaks out and the cup never overflows. This is not what God intended.
"I'll ache 'til You make me whole."
As an audience, we extended our hand-cups into the air, handing them to our Abba Father like a small child hands a broken object to a parent. Individually we identified a specific crack and asked Him to fix it.
"Abba, this belongs to You."
I had just spent the last hour closely examining the multiple cracks in my cup. The cracks that are causing fast leaks and those that are slower. The causes of the cracks and the repercussions of them. The need for the Lord to repair the cracks and fill my cup.
"Abba, this belongs to You. This belongs to You, Abba Father."
Mending takes time, especially when your cup has been run over... twice. Especially when the cause of the cracks lead to multiple, "Oh, Honey"s. Yet when you, when I, lift our broken cups before the Lord, He graciously repairs them and pours into them until they are overflowing. He fills them until it's not the former cracks or even the cup itself that can be seen but rather His love pouring over the edges.
"I thirst for You, Jesus, fill me up!"
<>< Katie
Lyrics from "Make Me Whole" and "Abba, I Belong to You" by Peder Eide.
"You alone hold my broken cup."
I can't help but smile at the irony of the moment. Over coffee a few days before, I had a conversation about (among other things) parking meters, Christian books, and cracked cups.
"You alone hold my broken cup. My heart's so dusty and dry."
Two days earlier I stood in the audience and listened to singer/songwriter Peder Eide talk about cracked cups.
We all have cups. God pours out love, affirmation, encouragement intending to fill our cup until it overflows. Yet fear, abandonment, rejection, etc. have cracked our cups. Some cracks are bigger than others yet still the goodness of God leaks out and the cup never overflows. This is not what God intended.
"I'll ache 'til You make me whole."
As an audience, we extended our hand-cups into the air, handing them to our Abba Father like a small child hands a broken object to a parent. Individually we identified a specific crack and asked Him to fix it.
"Abba, this belongs to You."
I had just spent the last hour closely examining the multiple cracks in my cup. The cracks that are causing fast leaks and those that are slower. The causes of the cracks and the repercussions of them. The need for the Lord to repair the cracks and fill my cup.
"Abba, this belongs to You. This belongs to You, Abba Father."
Mending takes time, especially when your cup has been run over... twice. Especially when the cause of the cracks lead to multiple, "Oh, Honey"s. Yet when you, when I, lift our broken cups before the Lord, He graciously repairs them and pours into them until they are overflowing. He fills them until it's not the former cracks or even the cup itself that can be seen but rather His love pouring over the edges.
"I thirst for You, Jesus, fill me up!"
<>< Katie
Lyrics from "Make Me Whole" and "Abba, I Belong to You" by Peder Eide.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Quality Time
As my week back home in Baptist Country was drawing to a close, I pondered who I had gotten to see for a substantial amount of time and who I wanted to spend more time with.
The friends I am closest to, naturally, fit into the "I want more time!" category. But I began to wonder, how much more time did I want? If life and other obligations were no object, how much time would be sufficient with them?
Forever.
I wanted to stay in their apartment forever. I wanted to sit in their offices and chat days away. I wanted to never ever leave again.
Of course, an infinite amount of time with my friends would be fun.
But I decided that's what kind of relationship I want with the Lord. I want to lock myself in the prayer room and never come out. I want to sit at His feet and never move. I want to rest on the chest of my Abba Father.
Forever.
<>< Katie
The friends I am closest to, naturally, fit into the "I want more time!" category. But I began to wonder, how much more time did I want? If life and other obligations were no object, how much time would be sufficient with them?
Forever.
I wanted to stay in their apartment forever. I wanted to sit in their offices and chat days away. I wanted to never ever leave again.
Of course, an infinite amount of time with my friends would be fun.
But I decided that's what kind of relationship I want with the Lord. I want to lock myself in the prayer room and never come out. I want to sit at His feet and never move. I want to rest on the chest of my Abba Father.
Forever.
<>< Katie
Monday, November 7, 2011
Communion
I was a little frazzled as I headed towards the front of church for communion. Our self-guided section turned into a mob rather than a line. By the time we half-organized ourselves, I was ready for body, blood, seat. That fast.
I stepped to the front, held my hands out for the wafer, and looked up into the face of our senior pastor. Pastor Mike stopped and looked back at me.
"They're letting everybody in today!" He teased.
It's a joke I've heard many times over the last few years, but it still catches me off-guard every time. I chuckle but my first thought is always, "This is a church; we should be letting everybody in."
To be confronted with this joke at the communion table helped me remember that I am not worthy to even be let in the door much less invited to approach the table of grace or enjoy the sweet taste of forgiveness. This isn't a weekly ritual we do even when the lines turn into mobs... it's a beautiful gift purchased by the ultimate sacrifice.
Pastor Mike placed the wafer in my hand. "Body of our Lord," he said.
In my hands I clutched the tangible reminder of that gift, that forgiveness, that perfect love that I am not worthy of. The body of Christ given for me. The body of our Lord--Pastor Mike's and mine. We may not always agree yet share a common goal: to serve and honor Him. Along with Christians worldwide, we share hope, faith, and forgiveness through Christ. He's our Lord.
"It's good to see you," he said, smacking me playfully in the arm.
I was out of town for the entire month of October. He noticed. Thousands of members and he noticed my absence. Billions of people on earth yet when we haven't spent quality time with the Lord, He notices. Billions of people on earth and when we sit at His feet, He's glad to see us.
I ate the bread, drank the wine, and got lost on my way back to my seat. Both literally among the sea of people and pews but also figuratively in the beauty of that moment I shared with the Lord.
Thankful for grace,
<>< Katie
I stepped to the front, held my hands out for the wafer, and looked up into the face of our senior pastor. Pastor Mike stopped and looked back at me.
"They're letting everybody in today!" He teased.
It's a joke I've heard many times over the last few years, but it still catches me off-guard every time. I chuckle but my first thought is always, "This is a church; we should be letting everybody in."
To be confronted with this joke at the communion table helped me remember that I am not worthy to even be let in the door much less invited to approach the table of grace or enjoy the sweet taste of forgiveness. This isn't a weekly ritual we do even when the lines turn into mobs... it's a beautiful gift purchased by the ultimate sacrifice.
Pastor Mike placed the wafer in my hand. "Body of our Lord," he said.
In my hands I clutched the tangible reminder of that gift, that forgiveness, that perfect love that I am not worthy of. The body of Christ given for me. The body of our Lord--Pastor Mike's and mine. We may not always agree yet share a common goal: to serve and honor Him. Along with Christians worldwide, we share hope, faith, and forgiveness through Christ. He's our Lord.
"It's good to see you," he said, smacking me playfully in the arm.
I was out of town for the entire month of October. He noticed. Thousands of members and he noticed my absence. Billions of people on earth yet when we haven't spent quality time with the Lord, He notices. Billions of people on earth and when we sit at His feet, He's glad to see us.
I ate the bread, drank the wine, and got lost on my way back to my seat. Both literally among the sea of people and pews but also figuratively in the beauty of that moment I shared with the Lord.
Thankful for grace,
<>< Katie
Friday, November 4, 2011
Who are the Poor?
For the last week I have been dog-sitting in a very nice neighborhood. Day after day, I walk the dog down the freshy-swept street looking at the fancy homes, the manicured lawns, and expensive cars. Part of me wonders if I could ever afford to live here.
Financially, it's a lofty goal for this unemployed recent grad. That's not what I meant.
I mean, could I afford to live here
when some live here?
The Bible doesn't say "Don't live in a nice house"... but it does say "give everything you have to the poor."
But who are the poor?
Are the poor the children in a hogar in Guatemala who play with one-armed Barbies but have the joy of the Lord in their hearts and it shows on their faces?
Are the poor the people paying taxes on their 4,000 square-foot homes who are on the brink of divorce, have disrespectful children, and hire someone else to pick up their dog poop?
Part of me says, no way, I will never live in a classy neighborhood. (Especially based on those stereotypes). I've seen too much poverty to be comfortable in a large, neat home.
Perhaps that is true. For just me and the dog, this four-bedroom, three-bath home is way too big. But what if I had a husband and children?
Through trial and error, I have learned some aspects of third-world ministry. I have been to places where hand sanitizer and toilet paper are luxuries. The girls in the photo above aren't just children worlds away with stories that would break your heart. We know each others' names, they are my sisters, and they almost knocked me fifteen feet off that ledge ten seconds after that photo was taken when they tried to all see it simultaneously.
Yet, as I walk through this nice neighborhood and wonder about the people inside of the homes, I wonder about them and their lives. Do they know their neighbors? Do they realize there's more to life than fnancial success? Most importantly, do they know that God loves them?
How can I walk my dog down this street
knowing stray dogs roam down this street?
Easy. On both streets there are people that have never heard the name of Jesus.
How can I limit ministry to the without-money poor without including the without-Jesus poor?
Third world ministry may be teaching people how to brush their teeth, handing out bracelets, and fitting them with eye glasses. It can be loving them, making a fool of yourself, and living the gospel.
Is that not also what is the first world also needs? Love, humor, and (most importantly) Jesus.
First world ministry is greeting neighbors as you pass them on the street, hand-delivering a warm breakfast to the neighbor's housesitter and inviting her over for dinner, or cutting someone else's grass because they're having a busy week. It can be releasing a child from poverty through child sponsorship and telling others about your Fridge Kid. It's loving the way Christ commands us and living the gospel.
He is the God of this city
just as He is of this one.
Can I afford it?
How can I NOT?
The Great Commission commands us to GO and make disciples of ALL nations (Matthew 28:19, emphasis mine). I like to GO to another nation; it has become comfortable to me. But GO can also mean GO to the other side of the shurbery.
No matter where you live, GO and be the missionary you were called to be (Acts 1:8).
It starts with me.
<>< Katie
Financially, it's a lofty goal for this unemployed recent grad. That's not what I meant.
I mean, could I afford to live here
when some live here?
Can I live here
having been here?
The Bible doesn't say "Don't live in a nice house"... but it does say "give everything you have to the poor."
But who are the poor?
Are the poor the children in a hogar in Guatemala who play with one-armed Barbies but have the joy of the Lord in their hearts and it shows on their faces?
Are the poor the people paying taxes on their 4,000 square-foot homes who are on the brink of divorce, have disrespectful children, and hire someone else to pick up their dog poop?
Part of me says, no way, I will never live in a classy neighborhood. (Especially based on those stereotypes). I've seen too much poverty to be comfortable in a large, neat home.
Perhaps that is true. For just me and the dog, this four-bedroom, three-bath home is way too big. But what if I had a husband and children?
Through trial and error, I have learned some aspects of third-world ministry. I have been to places where hand sanitizer and toilet paper are luxuries. The girls in the photo above aren't just children worlds away with stories that would break your heart. We know each others' names, they are my sisters, and they almost knocked me fifteen feet off that ledge ten seconds after that photo was taken when they tried to all see it simultaneously.
Yet, as I walk through this nice neighborhood and wonder about the people inside of the homes, I wonder about them and their lives. Do they know their neighbors? Do they realize there's more to life than fnancial success? Most importantly, do they know that God loves them?
How can I walk my dog down this street
knowing stray dogs roam down this street?
Easy. On both streets there are people that have never heard the name of Jesus.
How can I limit ministry to the without-money poor without including the without-Jesus poor?
Third world ministry may be teaching people how to brush their teeth, handing out bracelets, and fitting them with eye glasses. It can be loving them, making a fool of yourself, and living the gospel.
Is that not also what is the first world also needs? Love, humor, and (most importantly) Jesus.
First world ministry is greeting neighbors as you pass them on the street, hand-delivering a warm breakfast to the neighbor's housesitter and inviting her over for dinner, or cutting someone else's grass because they're having a busy week. It can be releasing a child from poverty through child sponsorship and telling others about your Fridge Kid. It's loving the way Christ commands us and living the gospel.
He is the God of this city
Can I afford it?
How can I NOT?
The Great Commission commands us to GO and make disciples of ALL nations (Matthew 28:19, emphasis mine). I like to GO to another nation; it has become comfortable to me. But GO can also mean GO to the other side of the shurbery.
No matter where you live, GO and be the missionary you were called to be (Acts 1:8).
It starts with me.
<>< Katie
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Sarchi, Land of Broken People
Sarchi, Costa Rica, will forever be ingrained in my brain as the "Land of Broken People."
In the one afternoon we spent their, we saw more physically disabled people than I have seen in my entire life. He's wearing an eye patch, she's missing a leg, and that is not what a bandaged arm is supposed to look like.
I really wish I could say I did something noble like praying over the ailing or dispensing Advil or something.
I didn't.
I gawked and laughed at jokes about what must be in the water. It ashames me now. But to this day, anytime I see people with physical handicaps or disabilities, I remember Sarchi, land of broken people.
Could we not all be considered to be from Sarchi? Are we not all broken people?
Wounded physically, maybe but more likely wounded emotionally. Broken hearted.
Ironically, one of the two friends who visited Sarchi with me, the one who made the joke about the water, is responsible for breaking my heart. Intentionally or unintentionally doesn't matter. It happened.
Broken people.
I am growing to love broken people. It's in their vulnerability, when they share their brokenness, that God's glory shines most brightly. We can't all be perfect people. Let me rephrase that, none of us are perfect people.
Just admit it: you are broken. It's hard to say, but I am broken. I don't have it all together. I don't spend time with the Lord like I should. I snap when I should be courteous. I miss blog days when I have committed to blogging every other day. I try to exalt myself sometimes even at the expense of someone else. I even, gasp, cry.
I hate being broken. I want my body to do what I tell it to do. I want my emotions in check all the time. I want my heart guarded and unbroken. But trying to heal myself only turns into a more-contorted broken arm. More damage than good.
Yet I choose to sit at the feet of the Great Physician and let Him, in His time, bind up my wounds, replace my broken heart, and mend my soul. It is only then that I begin to heal. Maybe more slowly than I would like; maybe not perfect in the world's sense but perfect in God's sense.
And it gives me a story to tell. A story that boasts my weakness and His greatness.
I understand now, the older song that says, "Brokenness, it's what I long for. Brokenness, it's what I need."
I am broken.
I am Sarchian.
<>< Katie
In the one afternoon we spent their, we saw more physically disabled people than I have seen in my entire life. He's wearing an eye patch, she's missing a leg, and that is not what a bandaged arm is supposed to look like.
I really wish I could say I did something noble like praying over the ailing or dispensing Advil or something.
I didn't.
I gawked and laughed at jokes about what must be in the water. It ashames me now. But to this day, anytime I see people with physical handicaps or disabilities, I remember Sarchi, land of broken people.
Could we not all be considered to be from Sarchi? Are we not all broken people?
Wounded physically, maybe but more likely wounded emotionally. Broken hearted.
Ironically, one of the two friends who visited Sarchi with me, the one who made the joke about the water, is responsible for breaking my heart. Intentionally or unintentionally doesn't matter. It happened.
Broken people.
I am growing to love broken people. It's in their vulnerability, when they share their brokenness, that God's glory shines most brightly. We can't all be perfect people. Let me rephrase that, none of us are perfect people.
Just admit it: you are broken. It's hard to say, but I am broken. I don't have it all together. I don't spend time with the Lord like I should. I snap when I should be courteous. I miss blog days when I have committed to blogging every other day. I try to exalt myself sometimes even at the expense of someone else. I even, gasp, cry.
I hate being broken. I want my body to do what I tell it to do. I want my emotions in check all the time. I want my heart guarded and unbroken. But trying to heal myself only turns into a more-contorted broken arm. More damage than good.
Yet I choose to sit at the feet of the Great Physician and let Him, in His time, bind up my wounds, replace my broken heart, and mend my soul. It is only then that I begin to heal. Maybe more slowly than I would like; maybe not perfect in the world's sense but perfect in God's sense.
And it gives me a story to tell. A story that boasts my weakness and His greatness.
I understand now, the older song that says, "Brokenness, it's what I long for. Brokenness, it's what I need."
I am broken.
I am Sarchian.
<>< Katie
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Wash Cloth
It had been a good but long 15 hour day. I left at 8am and returned home at 11pm with only a few hours before I had to get up and do it all over again.
But there were things separating me from that extra soft twin bed with two king size pillows. Namely: a shower.
I showered as fast as I could, sinus headache growing in intensity with every passing minute, but I kept my eyes on the promised land.
I reached absentmindedly for my facial lotion. Welcome cold weather, the phase of the year when my face is at risk of falling off because it's so dry. Lotion would bring me one step closer to dreamland.
But then I stopped.
I had an idea that would at worst be one step further from dreamland (and one step closer to a missing face) and at best relief to my painful head. Idea: to drape a warm wash cloth over my face.
So I did. As hot as I could stand it. It was heavenly!
In that moment, nothing but the warm wash cloth mattered. The rest of me was getting hypothermia as my wet hair dripped down my back.
But I didn't care. That simple hot cloth was the best thing that happened to me in all fifteen hours of my day (sixteen if you count the getting ready hour). I wanted to stay there forever, wash cloth over my face, cold hair dripping onto the floor.
Except I couldn't. So eventually, I bore the separation and continued my bedtime routine.
"Hey, Katie," God spoke but not in an audible voice.
Of course, He would start speaking as I was rushing to bed. Sometimes He's like my family, starting a conversation with me as I'm on my way out the door.
"Yes, Lord," I answered. Something like that.
"Remember how that wash cloth felt?"
"How could I forget?" Ooh! Jesus-like. I answered a question with a question.
"Remember how nothing else mattered and you wanted to stay there forever even thought your toes were cold and those hairs I numbered were matting together as they dripped water molecules down your back and onto the slippery floor?"
"Yes, Lord, and if You say to stay like that forever I totally will! After all, You're God and I'm not, so if you tell me, I'll do it obediently."
"Katie, stay that way forever. But let Me be the warm wash cloth. Bury your face in Me so nothing else matters. Not this world, not the job hunt, not even the fact that your pants don't fit. Let Me be your wash cloth."
"Yes, Lord."
"Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'" Psalm 91:1-2 NIV
But there were things separating me from that extra soft twin bed with two king size pillows. Namely: a shower.
I showered as fast as I could, sinus headache growing in intensity with every passing minute, but I kept my eyes on the promised land.
I reached absentmindedly for my facial lotion. Welcome cold weather, the phase of the year when my face is at risk of falling off because it's so dry. Lotion would bring me one step closer to dreamland.
But then I stopped.
I had an idea that would at worst be one step further from dreamland (and one step closer to a missing face) and at best relief to my painful head. Idea: to drape a warm wash cloth over my face.
So I did. As hot as I could stand it. It was heavenly!
In that moment, nothing but the warm wash cloth mattered. The rest of me was getting hypothermia as my wet hair dripped down my back.
But I didn't care. That simple hot cloth was the best thing that happened to me in all fifteen hours of my day (sixteen if you count the getting ready hour). I wanted to stay there forever, wash cloth over my face, cold hair dripping onto the floor.
Except I couldn't. So eventually, I bore the separation and continued my bedtime routine.
"Hey, Katie," God spoke but not in an audible voice.
Of course, He would start speaking as I was rushing to bed. Sometimes He's like my family, starting a conversation with me as I'm on my way out the door.
"Yes, Lord," I answered. Something like that.
"Remember how that wash cloth felt?"
"How could I forget?" Ooh! Jesus-like. I answered a question with a question.
"Remember how nothing else mattered and you wanted to stay there forever even thought your toes were cold and those hairs I numbered were matting together as they dripped water molecules down your back and onto the slippery floor?"
"Yes, Lord, and if You say to stay like that forever I totally will! After all, You're God and I'm not, so if you tell me, I'll do it obediently."
"Katie, stay that way forever. But let Me be the warm wash cloth. Bury your face in Me so nothing else matters. Not this world, not the job hunt, not even the fact that your pants don't fit. Let Me be your wash cloth."
"Yes, Lord."
"Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'" Psalm 91:1-2 NIV
Friday, September 30, 2011
Listen
I woke up with a sore throat. I had hoped it would get better as the day progressed. It didn't. By the middle of the afternoon I sounded like Kermit the frog.
Wonderful.
I thought about not going to small group. It was a 45 minute drive there at the end of rush hour and a 45 minute drive back at 11pm. I was already exhausted from making that same trek once that morning. And I was sick.
Do I go and risk infecting other people with this sudden illness? Do I stay home and try to fight it?
I'm not a "stay home because I have a cold" person. I get colds a lot, so I'd miss out on a lot of life if I stayed home every time.
So over to the mansion I drove. When I got there, I learned half of the other people had colds, too. Last week we were all healthy; this week we had a germ-sharing party.
A sniffler. A sneezer. Kermit. What a choir!
Out came the guitar to sing some praise and worship songs.
Sometimes my speaking voice "frogs" before my singing voice or vice versa. It's rare they're both nasty at the same time. But, then again, I don't usually go from fine to Kermit in one day.
I apologized to the girl sitting next to me and tried to sing. Yup, nothing.
Time to move my lips and life a joyful noise from my heart...
Time to listen. Losing your normal voice is like being put in time out. Sometimes it's just not physically possible to speak. Other times it hurts. Or you just don't want to hear yourself.
"I'm worshipping YOU, God," I said in my traditional frog-voice campaign.
Listen, God spoke to my heart.
Is this like Guatemala but without the orange paint? I want to sing.
Listen. You sang on Sunday.
Thank You that I had a voice to participate in such a wonderful, Spirit-filled praise and worship service on Sunday. I'm sorry it took losing my voice today to be grateful for something I took for granted yesterday. Lesson learned. [pause] Can I have it back now?
<>< Kermit
Wonderful.
I thought about not going to small group. It was a 45 minute drive there at the end of rush hour and a 45 minute drive back at 11pm. I was already exhausted from making that same trek once that morning. And I was sick.
Do I go and risk infecting other people with this sudden illness? Do I stay home and try to fight it?
I'm not a "stay home because I have a cold" person. I get colds a lot, so I'd miss out on a lot of life if I stayed home every time.
So over to the mansion I drove. When I got there, I learned half of the other people had colds, too. Last week we were all healthy; this week we had a germ-sharing party.
A sniffler. A sneezer. Kermit. What a choir!
Out came the guitar to sing some praise and worship songs.
Sometimes my speaking voice "frogs" before my singing voice or vice versa. It's rare they're both nasty at the same time. But, then again, I don't usually go from fine to Kermit in one day.
I apologized to the girl sitting next to me and tried to sing. Yup, nothing.
Time to move my lips and life a joyful noise from my heart...
Time to listen. Losing your normal voice is like being put in time out. Sometimes it's just not physically possible to speak. Other times it hurts. Or you just don't want to hear yourself.
"I'm worshipping YOU, God," I said in my traditional frog-voice campaign.
Listen, God spoke to my heart.
Is this like Guatemala but without the orange paint? I want to sing.
Listen. You sang on Sunday.
Thank You that I had a voice to participate in such a wonderful, Spirit-filled praise and worship service on Sunday. I'm sorry it took losing my voice today to be grateful for something I took for granted yesterday. Lesson learned. [pause] Can I have it back now?
<>< Kermit
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