twenty-six

My 26^th birthday wasn’t much of a thing.  I went to church.  I came home to a traditional Sunday roast lunch with my traditionally-gathered Sunday roast lunch family members.  I ate a delicious not-so-traditional peanut butter pie.  I opened presents.  And then I went to work, where I hung out with self- or others-harming adolescents who, for the most part, kept destructive behavior to a minimum that evening.  Thankfully.  Because it was my birthday, and I was freaking entitled to be mildly worshiped…  at least.

Really, it was mostly just a day.  Sort of a harsh anticlimax to what I thought would surely be the beginning of the ohmygoshican’tbelievei’mactuallythisoldandistilldon’thavemycraptogether season.  But February 23^rd came and went without much to say for itself, as if shrugging and commenting something apathetically on its way out like, “Well, looks like everything is going to be pretty much the same."

I sat in a booth across from my cousin Morgan at Panera Bread about a week later.  We both clasped hands around our coffee cups, catching up on lives and woes and new things over the last couple of months since we had seen each other.  I had done a bit of introspection over those few days since the anniversary of my birth.  I reflected on how, in the past, each birth year had gone by with a sense of failure because I hadn’t accomplished this or that by now.  Remember that blog on being 23?  I recall being dumbfounded and ashamed that I hadn’t found “the one”, gotten a “real” job, figured out what I wanted to do with my life – all that being a white, middle-class, Christian American woman entails.  Each early-twenty-something birthday passed with the hope of Well, maybe next year…

“But year twenty-six is going to be different,” I told myself one day, and Morgan a few later.  “I declare that year twenty-six is going to be the year of not looking forward to the things that haven’t been promised; but instead, the things that have been promised."

Think about it.

Did God ever promise me a husband and family of my own?  Well, no.  But He promised an adoption as His daughter into the beautiful and eternal family of Christ.  Did He ever promise me a fancy, secure job?  Nope.  But He promised to provide everything I need.  What about the knowledge of definite plans for the rest of my life?  Of course not.  But He promised that if I trusted Him, He would direct my path.

Or the harder realization…  Does God promise to give the desires of my heart if I delight myself in Him?  He sure does, but…  He doesn’t promise those in this lifetime.

Ever read Hebrews 11?  The “Hall of Faith,” as the Christians say.  A chronicle of the ways in which sixteen people showed exemplary faith for the glory of God…  "yet none of them received what had been promised."  Jesus.  The promise of the Messiah.  Not received in their earthly lifetime, but certainly known in the eternal.

I guess it's about time I approach the brink of a mature and peaceful acceptance that getting older and wiser – and more like Jesus – doesn’t entitle me to the pleasures of this world I often believe I deserve.

But His blessings are far sweeter than my expectations anyway.

So, cheers to 26 years.  Here's to every following birthday not including the anticipation of a sort of arrival.  Here's to not pining away for burdens I was never meant to take on (for now).  Here's to actually being, I don't know… content.  But not content, exactly.  Thriving.  Where I am.  Right now.  Here's to learning how to cook before I meet a guy I'll have to cook for and working part-time jobs to fund the things I actually care about doing.  Here's to saying yes to God's promises and living without expectation in regard to all the rest.

Because now is enough.

Thailand Q&A

Agriculture is the main economic activity in the Isan region of Thailand. These women, like many others, sell their fresh produce in the marketplace.  Photo source.

One-sided conversations are boring.

So I want to give a big thanks to those of who joined in by sharing what makes you come alive with me.  From playing music, to sharing Jesus with kids, to loving hurting families, God is using you as His hands and feet on this earth.  And that’s pretty dang cool.  If you didn’t respond, I’d still love to know about you and what you are passionate about.

In my last update, I told you about the opportunity I have to be a real, live, full-time missionary in Thailand.  (No idea what I’m talking about?  Read it here.)  Now I want to add a little more flesh to those minimal details and hopefully answer a few of the most common questions…

• Are you going with the same organization as you did for the World Race?Nope, that was Adventures in Missions.  (They’re super cool too, though - check them out if you’re looking for mostly short-term missions opportunities!)  This time, I’ll be with Avant Ministries.  They’ve been around for 120 years, sending teams of missionaries to places in the world that have had, at most, almost zero exposure to the Good News.
   
• How long will you be gone?
  I’ll be over there 5-7 years (whoa!), but I’ll be able to come back for short stints within that time frame. 

• Are you going by yourself or with a team?
  No way am I going alone – I’d just get lost all the time.  I’ll be on a team with all these people!

 

    

                   Tim, Alex, Dominic, & Marnee Neudorf               Elizabeth McCall                          Heather & Matt Rittscher

• Will you have to learn the language?
  Yep!  For the first year or so, my team and I will be learning Thai at a language school in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand.  มันจะเป็นเรื่องยากมาก

• What exactly will you be doing?
  After language school, we’ll be moving farther northeast to the Isan region of Thailand, where we’ll build relationships with Thai people who have likely never heard the Gospel.  As we share the Truth about Jesus with them, we will pray and work to form churches among these new Thai believers.  If you want to get fancy with the terminology, we’ll be doing something called Short-Cycle Church Planting.  Feel free to check out a more extensive description of that here if you feel like geeking out, but don’t worry – I’ll tell you more about it later.

• When do you leave?
  The official “launch” date is still in the works, but it’s looking like sometime between December 2014 and January 2015.

• Will you have access to the Internet?
  Yep – praise God that the Internet can be found in the Third World too.  So, no fear, you'll still have a steady stream of food pictures blowing up your Instagram. Like this one.

I have so appreciated your encouragement and excitement about what God is going to do in Thailand.  Would you be willing to pray alongside me as I prepare to go and for the hearts of the Thais already there?  I am specifically looking for at least 5 people to commit to praying for me and my team on a weekly basis.  This thing definitely won’t fly without others partnering with us, seeking favor from the Father on our behalf.  If that’s something you’re excited about, please send me an e-mail to let me know!

Several of you have said you know people who care about Thailand.  Maybe they’re really into missions, or they live there now, or they’ve ridden an elephant at some point – whatever the reason, that’s awesome!  If you think they might be interested in learning more about what my team will be doing there, feel free to send me their info or just pass this along to them!

Alright, that was a lot of information…  But it’s exciting when things are happening, and there is stuff to share.  So, tell me...  If we were having this conversation at Starbucks, and I just told you all that stuff about my life, and now my mouth is tired and it’s your turn to talk for the next 10 minutes…  Tell me, what’s God stirring up in your life?

Coffee Date

Let’s sit down for a cup of coffee.  Or tea, or hot chocolate, whatever you like.  Wrap your fingers around your mug, soaking in the warmth of your preferred comfort beverage, a sharp but pleasant contrast to the chilly weather outside.  Lean back in your big, cushioned chair, inhaling the candle scent of… what’s your favorite?  Vanilla?  Cinnamon?  Fresh linen?  Let it stimulate your senses, conjuring up thoughts and dreams you may have set aside long ago for more practical things.

Because, for now, I want to talk about things that aren’t so practical.

What is your calling?

Has anyone ever asked you before?

What’s the thing that sets you on fire?  That niggling thought of what could be, the issue that keeps you up at night?  What has God awakened in your soul?

Maybe it’s kids living on the streets of a land oceans away.  Abandoned, helpless, hungry, your arms long to hold them and your heart longs to love them, breathing affirmation and the reality of something better to come.  Maybe it’s the professional women who wander through life in a haze, wondering if there is any meaning to the day in and day out, keeping of books, laundering of clothes, scheduling of appointments, handling of budgets, securing of relationships – but ever alone.  Maybe it’s writing music or researching the cure for breast cancer or saving the killer whales at Sea World.

Sit on it for a minute.  Allow it to stir you.  Reflect on how it began, where the journey has taken you.

May I tell you mine?

I have made it my ambition to go where Christ has not been named.

It all started at Camp.  The experiencing life beyond the Bible Belt, the coming into contact with kids who didn’t grow up singing “Jesus Loves the Little Children” or having parents who kissed them goodnight.  The realizing…  Oh, I have the Message that matters.  And the ability to tell them about it.

So I did.

And God woke me up to a passion I didn’t know I had.

This started me down the uncomfortable and dangerous path that is…  Well, I have seen.  And now I am responsible.

I volunteered in youth groups.  I got back to the very basics with my small group of high school girls:  Why did Jesus have to die for us to be saved?  What does being “saved” even mean? 

I loved teaching, I really did.  But my heart wandered elsewhere, to the places where the name of Jesus had scarcely been uttered.  Countries far, far away.

I spent eleven nomadic months in these places, growing into a state of dependence, a realization that I could never change the world on my own. I saw the hunger – physical, spiritual, emotional.  And I was never the same.  Trusting the Lord to be my strength and my guide, that was the key.

Having dabbled in enough wanderlust to satiate me for awhile, I asked God to open up a door for something less short-term. And he did.

Imagine.

Imagine growing up in a place where the name of Jesus had never been spoken or heard.  Where your parents encouraged you to dedicate your worship to various gods of gold or stone.  Where your sole ambition, besides maintaining your existence, is to gain perfect peace, nirvana, through giving to temples, feeding monks, and praising lifeless idols.  A place where the produce of the soil is low, but the number of people who believe the Truth is vastly lower.

This is the province of Isan in the country of Thailand.

For the past 120 years, international missionary organization Avant Ministries sought out these kinds of places to plant thriving, Christ-centered churches where none exist.  They invited me to be a part of the team they will be sending to Thailand, where the harvest is plentiful, but the workers are so few.  I have been appointed to be a real, live, full-time missionary.  To learn a new language, adopt a new culture, make new friends, tell them about Jesus, and watch the Holy Spirit transform their lives.

Pretty cool, right?

I’ll leave it at that for now, but I’m excited to tell you more… soon.

For real, though, I want to know:  What sets your heart on fire? 

When I Think of Freedom

I’ve had this girlish fantasy for a few years now.  It’s a little vain, maybe, but the desire remains.  You know those photos or commercials you see of women in flowing white dresses, running across green, flower-clad meadows?  I want a picture of myself being that woman.  I want to wear a long, wispy dress that fans out all around me as I twirl in circles with my eyes closed, arms outstretched, palms facing the sky, head upturned, with a smile welcoming the sunbeams that kiss my face in response.  I want to laugh in elation at the wonder and joy of life.  There are no bounds to my meadow.  Trees dot the landscape here and there, but there are no mountains or forests that enclose it, caging me in.

 




 

I want to feel free and confident – not the kind of confident that comes with lots of people telling you how awesome you are, or that you’re really funny, or that you should write a book or become a counselor.  Rather, the confidence that comes with a steadfast faith in the Giver of your identity.  And this confidence is hard to come by for me because I look for my identity in all the wrong things.  Like other people.  Because, at the end of the day, one of my greatest desires is for people to know me.  Really know me.  Know me and love me in such an impossible way that, after they’ve failed me a few/lot of times, I remember again that I really just want them to be Jesus.

 

I want Jesus in all the people from whom I seek attention and affirmation.  I want perfect pursuit.  Perfect, servant-hearted love.  The kind that makes me feel safe, like I’m not an annoying toddler who keeps spilling her milk or making a mess of the pretty table arrangement or being too loud when important things are happening.  I want Jesus in someone to look at me in my mess, pick me up, and wrap me up in their arms, laughing at how cute I am just because I’m alive.  And I want Jesus in someone to hold me close against their chest and hum soothing melodies and sing songs over me.  And I want, well, Him to speak life over my life and hold me in His arms and stroke my hair until I fall asleep.  Secure, blissful, peaceful rest.

 



 

I recently started working in a psychiatric hospital/residential treatment center.  I work in one of the children’s units, where kids enter in a state of crisis.  Most of them have some kind of abusive background, and many are self-harming and suicidal.  In order to protect the kids and/or ourselves from various forms of danger, we sometimes have to put them in therapeutic holds. One of my coworkers calls it “wrapping them up,” this action of restraining their arms behind their backs and seating them on the ground until they can calm down, process, and remember that there are coping skills that don’t involve stabbing their peers with pencils or punching door handles.  And once we feel certain that the child’s response to the situation will look different and better than before, we communicate that it’s time to slowly get up, verbally process through what happened, and return to the normal day’s activities.

 



 

When I think about the concept of freedom, all of these pictures feel vaguely familiar, like I’ve been in each of them at one point or another.  And it all makes me wonder if freedom comes in different forms.  It’s a woman dancing in a field without limits or a baby sleeping in a secure embrace or a kid who took freedom too far and needs to be redirected to a better expression of it – for her good.  And I wonder if freedom is sometimes accessing the liberty of saying yes but also embracing the maturity in saying no.

 

Rob Bell said something like that in Velvet Elvis, writing that “Freedom is not having everything we crave, it’s being able to go without the things we crave and being OK with it.”

 

That makes sense to me, because it tells me that when I’m free, I’m not a slave to anything.

 

I stumbled upon a verse awhile back that paints the perfect Scripture picture of my fantasy.  Psalm 119:45 in the ESV says, “and I shall walk in a wide place, for I have sought your precepts.”  In the NIV, it states, “I will walk about in freedom.”

 

I feel like I’ve been drifting around pretty aimlessly these past couple of months.  It makes me tired.  Tired of paving my own road to freedom and sucking at it.

 

It’s kind of ironic to me that pursuing holy boundaries – following the steps of the Maker – would lead to the real thing, the freedom that is pure and good and confident and safe.  Something about denying yourself and taking up your cross, right?  And even though I still mostly get it, the rebellious child in me wants to buck against authority and do what I want.

 

Or get picked up and rocked to sleep.

 

When I awake, I will see you face to face and be satisfied. Psalm 17:15

 

For Mackenzie

I cradled your tiny body in my arms during the wee hours of a Tuesday morning.  You slept peacefully as I whispered words of prayer and promise over you.

 

You are wanted.

You are loved.

You are chosen.

 

It wasn’t easy, letting you go.  Your birth mommy’s tears fell on your little swaddled form as she held you in her arms, probably full of thoughts of what could be, what would not be, and what would be so much greater because she chose you over herself.

 

We passed you around the circle of those who had to say goodbye, at least for now.  We held you close, not wanting to forget a single feature of your face, not wanting to waste a single second of the final ones in which you were ours.  We told you how much we love you.  How precious you are to us.  Words of truth and life you certainly can’t understand right now, but words that will be forever true, words we want you to carry in your heart and soul every single day of your existence.

 

As you get older, baby girl, I hope you never face any lies of rejection, abandonment, and unwantedness surrounding the first weeks of your little life.  I hope you are one day able to fathom how eternally changed we have been by welcoming you into the world.  How much we absolutely adore and desire the very best for you.

 

Mackenzie, you are unbelievably wanted.  Loved.  Chosen.  By us.  By the ones who have the great blessing of raising you from infancy to womanhood.  But, most of all, by the One who created you.

 

I can’t wait for the day when you can stand up and make your own decision to pursue the One who pursued you first.  The One who knew you in your innermost being before even we did.  Who loved you before our hearts were captured by you.  Whose hands fashioned you together before ours got to hold you.  He is your Father, Savior, Lover, Redeemer, Best Friend.  I can’t wait to tell you about Him, to see your eyes light up when you comprehend the Gift He gave you.  I can’t wait for you to feel the depth of a love that is so much greater than anyone else can give you.

 

Mackenzie, if you’re ever in doubt, always know you have a family whose moon you hung, as well as a Father who will scoop you up in His arms and sing these now-familiar words over you:

 

I want you.

I love you.

I choose you.

 

 

Back from the Dead

Oh, hi!

Reagan's not dead; she's surely alive...

Suddenly, I get back to the real world, and I forget that maintaining contact with others still matters.  Oops.  Thanks to those of you who have sent the, “Hey, where the heck are you – did you make it out of Alaska alive?” e-mails to remind me to start updating again.

Well, I’ve been back to 2 months.  Since then, I’ve done a significant amount of sleeping and catching up with people I like and meeting new people and getting more involved at my church and a little bit of road tripping.  The usual. 

…….

This is an excerpt from the "Missionary-ish Tales" e-news.  Read the rest here.

The Art of Letting Go

 Original image source

I walked past the open door, my travel mug refilled, ready to once again plug away at figuring out how the next few months of my life would look after leaving Echo Ranch Bible Camp.

But the outside beckoned me.  Maybe it was You.  I don’t know what it was, but something told me not to go back downstairs, isolated, a slave to the Internet’s grand and varied offers for what my future could look like.

So I went.

This summer, with all my intents and purposes of growing, improving, and letting go, was exactly not that kind of season.  It was a season of holding on.  Holding on to what if?s in a recently ended relationship, projected hopes of a new Christian community, expectations of my stunning performance as a leader, and above all, the confidence that I would know exactly what I would be doing with my life once it was all over.

 Original image source

I walked past the Purple Bench.  I had originally intended on stopping there.  Maybe sitting down and enjoying the view of… the bath house?  Or maybe just the feeling of sitting in the sun.  But I kept walking.  I didn’t really know why.  Maybe I would go lie down in the middle of the sports field.  Soak up the rays that aren’t easy to come by during a summer in Southeast Alaska.  The path there was a little to the left.

God had called me here.  There haven’t been many times in my life when I could say that with confidence, but I knew it to be true now.  But as the weeks progressed, I watched my expectations crumble before my eyes.  I was a seasoned professional at this.  If any experience should have hammered that truth into my brain, it would have been the Race.  But I thought these were more realistic.  Instead, loneliness seeped in when quality time and vulnerability were scarce.  Feelings of failure abounded when my attempts to fulfill my role fell short. Uncertainty, anxiety, and depression crept up on me as I considered the possibilities and unknowns of my future again… and again… and again.  And, to top it all off, nobody liked feedback. 

I spent the summer being everywhere but here, and I knew it.  I felt like I had already thrown away opportunities to make the most of it, and nothing had even come out of all my fretting about what to do next.  I tossed, turned, and lay in a miserable heap of pity party in my bed one afternoon during the final few weeks, mulling it all over.  I listened to Jesus music and asked Him what heck I was supposed to do next.

And then I saw myself, scrambling around and trying to devise all these plans for what I would do.  But I wasn’t scrambling on the ground.  I was in the palm of a very large hand, and I didn’t even realize it.  I ran from one side of the palm to another, never noticing the fruitlessness of my efforts to do what I thought was best.  Because the hand was attached to Someone.  A wrist, to an arm, to a chest, to a neck to the head… of my Father.  My Father who was watching me run to and fro and sort of smiling knowingly.  As I looked in at myself, my scrambly little body, I thought, “If I were God, I would think that was so ridiculous. Why wouldn't I just trust Him, that He sees everything, and He's holding me, and He's in control? Why wouldn't I just rest, secure in His hand?"

Original image source

          

I turned right.  Why, I really didn’t know, but I didn’t really think about it.  Until I saw it and remembered.  The tiny little camp house referred to as the Love Shack. 

I had frequented this little home during my previous summer here because that is where my “camp mom”, Lyn, had lived.  We had talked together of things that mattered as she mixed together our favorite lemon drink concoction.  She told me her story.  And I marveled at how a woman so formerly broken could now be so full of love, grace, and joy.  

  

So often, my spirit’s response to a gentle Truth that sets it reeling is a simple, “Oh.”

I felt awakened.  Affirmed.  But not yet satisfied.  I knew there was more to trusting Him than just knowing I should do it.  It had to do with knowing Him.  Loving Him.  But what did that really mean, truly loving God with all my heart and soul and mind and strength?  I had seen others live that way.  I had been reading about it recently in one of the many books hailed by my World Race leaders.  I knew God was trustworthy, and I knew I loved Him.  But did I love Him like that?

          

I smiled as I walked up the porch steps and opened the door.  After making sure it was actually vacant, I settled into the couch where Lyn had shared her life with me four years ago.  Glancing around me, I noticed a book on the side table.  The Art of Loving God.  

I read the whole thing.  I cried.  I thanked.  I prayed.

I released.

I'm still processing through these kinds of things.  Intimacy.  Trust.  Love.  But in those still, sweet moments, I knew my Father was reaching down to me -- for me -- and saying, "Here, let Me help you understand a little better."  Maybe the point isn't me knowing all the things or being enough or getting it right or, you know, in control.  Just give. it. up.   (And haven't I already written like 56 blogs about this?)

What about you?  What kinds of things has God helped you understand in the midst of your own Crazy Land?