Call it

Being beautiful makes society lie to everyone. Am I being protected or falsified in the face of a magazine utopia? What makes a pretty face or who measures what is intended to be beautiful? If I am supposed to live up to this measurement then I will fail, I will not be considered worth because my looks will not uphold me. Beautiful. It's a word that we can smile or cringe at. Beautiful. It's the word that measures a multitude of physical and emotional aspects. Beautiful. It has become the vain of our existence. If being beautiful means I have to transform into who I wasn't meant to be, then I will lose. If being beautiful means that only by physical standards I will find a prince, then that measuring stick was never meant for me. I can put on a mask and hide because then I will be acceptable, but only then. And why? Because in any other sense, being adorned without looks or a goddess complex will not get me a second glance or even a first chance. If it is only that I am best when I am "ugly" then I will take that chance. If it means then that I will have a beautiful heart then I will take it. If it means that I can grow old and my heart will remain the same then I can face it.

To fight

"Stuck between the depths of my fears"

My fears...hard topic. Because it seems immeasurable.
Today? The struggle was finding adequacy in where I am. Right here. Right now. My thirst and appetite for recognition from people seems insatiable. And here I don't mean for fame, for glory, for any award. I mean simple awareness. I find myself searching for the call, the recognition of value, the need...for me. I fear abandonment, I fear loneliness, I fear what I cannot control without love from others, I fear being forgettable. It's as if someone stuck me in a dark room, uncovered my eyes to the pitch black, and I'm stretching my arms as far as they will reach, in some desperate measure to reach out to anyone near me. And within the arms of someone I can find peace.

But what is the truth here? My flesh screams louder than His voice more often than not. It cries out lies to me, "You are lonely," "No one remembers you." But then I have to think of something else. Something deep and impacting. I once asked a friend, "when do you feel most lonely?" and she replied, "when I'm misunderstood, but I can only imagine how Jesus felt." I'll never forget that statement. Think about it. Here, a man came knowing one thing: to love. He came for one mission: to heal. And what he knew all along: he'd be abandoned and misunderstood. He came for the very people who would end up calling him a lunatic, leaving him, and killing him. Can you imagine living a life for someone you knew would ultimately would forsake you? I cannot. Even the 12, the closest to him, fled in the most desperate hour their Savior needed them. Even to Peter, Jesus looked straight at him and said he would even abandon him, even denying him. Denying him. I cannot imagine loneliness such as this. His beauty, dimmed by what I fear most.

And then I cannot remember that picture. I'm stuck again, in the trap of comparison. My illness creeping in when I feel like I can't hold it back any longer. My heart the open target. How do you fight?

There's a story that I find unbelievably beautiful, and I'm learning to fight with it:
For 12 years, she fought. Long and hard against an illness she could not stop. From doctor to doctor, healer to healer, she turned to anyone, but to no avail did she find anyone who could heal her. The internal bleeding made her weary and it seemed unstoppable. One day, she heard a great healer was in town, and this man was whispered about all through the country side. He seemed to be very important. But many crowds gathered to see this man and to hear him speak. She had a little chance of seeing this man face to face. But she was desperate, willing to do anything for healing. She went out into the crowds and she saw the man walking away from them but the crowds pressed all around. She took charge through them, pushing her way to the man. She believed in the healing he could offer her. She believed in this man and his mystery of power. Finally, she made it through the crowd and fell to her knees, barely touching the fringe of his robes. Something happened. Her bleeding stopped. The man immediately asked "Who was it that touched me?" But all around him the people denied, but the man continued, "Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me." The woman suddenly pushed forward, trembling, and fell before him. In front of the mass of people, she cried out why she had touched him, and how as soon as her hands had touched his robes she had been healed. The man reached out to her and said, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace." (Luke 8:43-48).

Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace. DAUGHTER, your FAITH! Oh how my soul draws near to the words. Fighting for her life, this woman did not give up. Fighting for something she needed to believe in, she found healing. In the midst of my brokenness, my loneliness, my fears, I desire to fight the lies. To push beyond the crowds and find the hem of the healer, fall on my knees before Him and believe with all my heart in what he can do for me. Daughter, your faith doesn't include your fears. Daughter, your faith doesn't include loneliness. Daughter, your faith doesn't include being loved by the masses. You're loved by Me.

A thought

You can't appreciate the finish until you've run the race.

I'm sure someone else has come up with that analogy before, but that's what hit my mind last night. In the midst of struggle and hard times, I find myself redirecting my thoughts to that idea. The championship never tastes as sweet if you never knew the pain of getting through it. Sure we wish were all exempt from the hard times, the scary moments, the questions, the doubts, the pain, the insecurities, but when's the last time you looked back on it and didn't appreciate it for some reason? The materials to mold you.

Received a letter from a friend today that said I was carrying my cross beautifully. That was a statement that struck me. It makes me stop and stare at what my cross actually is. What is that I have to carry? What is this weight on me in these moments of pain and absolute confusion? The answer comes back in an echo that bounces off the hollows of my head. "I AM" It's the answer that makes me groan and feel so small. I didn't want it, but it's the truth. I run the race because I was asked to. And I chose to. My cross is of love and faith.

Someone else mentioned to me today that God will not violate someone else's free will to make us happy. I don't need to win the race by cheating. I will win it by asking for perserverance and joy. If we instantly felt the pain during the race, when our muscles scream to stop, then we would quit if we didn't beg for perserverance through that pain. The dangers of a feeling heart. Which I have. So what will I do with this feeling heart? Let it defeat me or let it mold me?

I often find myself rearranging my thoughts for others, replacing bad ones with happy ones, for the quick fix. I never stay in the moment. I never ask for the pain to grow my spirit positively or show me something new to learn. I always ask for the end. I ask for the finish line. As we all do. But He never said we'd get there by being exempt from pain. His Son was never exempt. Walking this earth for the very people he knew would kill and abandon him. But a prayer. Perserverance. He didn't want the process either, He asked for the end, but ultimately surrending to the process. The moment. The pain. I still, in this moment, find it hard to compel myself to give into this. There's too much loss there, I think. But I want to finish don't I? So here I have to contemplate what the race really means to me. It means not only winning but learning. Learning that the race is not possible without pain.

Hallelujah. O sings my soul. Hallelujah. When I want to scream and curse and cry, I fall to my knees and don't want to say Hallelujah. But out of my lungs escapes the praise, the curse, and the pleading. I ask for perserverance, I ask for faith. Let me run. Let me run. Carrying my cross of love and faith all along. I will win that race.

PICTURES I TOOK IN NICA

http://picasaweb.google.com/106866923919987810615/Nicaragua#

See the pics I took in Nica

This is the beginning...

I sometimes wish I knew where to begin in writing.
And other times I know exactly where: my heart.
Been thinking about how love works.
For me, it starts with faith. Though, it has always been seemingly troubling to mention how love is God. Not all believe. Not all want to believe. Freedom to choose. But even in choosing to believe, you still love despite how someone chooses. It's called respect. A deep resonating love exists in respect. Though troubled times cross us and shake our faith, there's something bigger there to keep it coming back. Love. In love's feeling form, can you describe the ache you feel when you love someone? Can you really reach to one word that describes what love is? That seemingly endless beat of your heart and repeated confusion of sentences or dazed expressions when they arrive. You can't teach love. You can teach romance. You can teach how to love. But you can't teach love. It's there, whether you know the word for it or not. You know it's there. And even in friendships, when you'd die for them, you have love. Whether they see what you see, believe what you believe, follow what you follow, you love them. Jesus didn't create exceptions to this rule. The Jesus I know isn't the Jesus culture proclaims him to be or even what half of what christians try to display. He is love. He is not like you and me, though made of what you and I are made of. He is in every way made of love. You can blame bad experiences on christians, I have. You can turn away from Him because of those who call themselves christians, I did. You can look at the world and it's tragedy and shake your head at Him, I have. But if I know one thing that exists in me that looks pure which is love, then I know I cannot exist without what he offers. And if I know that exists within me and I withhold it from anyone, I am not existing in what he has offered to me and countless others before me. The whole God concept seems crazy, and there seem to be countless ways to move around the idea of him and what he did and does, believe me, I hesitate every time I mention God to someone because I can't count how many times I've questioned him and his purpose and his story and I never want someone to walk away from me because I say I follow. I hesitate in calling myself a christian because of the connotation connected with it. I just want to be called faithful. It's like in the movie, "Return To Me" when the main character, Gracie, says she never wants to tell people she's had a heart transplant because people will look at her as if she were broken. I see myself the same way. If I call myself a christian, people will more often than not see me as something negative. Broken. But I shy away from giving a label because if I had to have one, I would want to be labeled under Love. Simply, I want to show anyone that I want to love them and give them what I know has been given to me. There is no intention beyond that. But it has to start and end with faith in what love is. For today, and hopefully forever, I exist in this love. I don't understand a lot of things. Never have and more than likely never will. And more often than not I don't ever understand love. But it's there. It's in that smile you can't get enough of. It's in the child you would lay your life down for. It's in your friends who carry you when you get weak. It's in a man who existed years ago who came to give and be life in people's lives. The bigger picture is wild in this. Creation itself an expression of love. But not everyone will see that. However, there is no turning away from them. You continue to love and give love to them.

The best example of love I can give is when I was in Nicaragua and our group went to a special needs school where about 10 special needs students were there doing a variety of things. We joined in with them, playing a small role in their world. But there was one word to describe how they made you feel: loved. There is a deeper love than I probably know in those students. And I felt it. They love without prior knowing of your history. They don't love you based on your resume. They didn't love you based on the choices you've made. Their child-like love abounded what in 20 years of living I could ever give to someone else. They weren't taught that. It existed there.

I strive to know this love. Sure, we can love without knowing God, but how did you know how? And yes, your situations growing up and people you knew helped that, but how did they know?

Without love, we would be void. So love. Give love. Find love. Question His love. As for me, I am beginning to see where love comes from and what endless love looks like. To me, it starts and ends in faith. And while never easy and despite someone's choice to yield to this, faith bears love. Love is deep. There are no exceptions to this love.