the art of being brave

My neighborhood

2011-11-21T17:58:00.000-08:00

I've finally started roaming the streets of East Atlanta with my camera in hand.

Composing through the lens of a camera settles my heart like few other things in this world.

family

2011-08-24T13:49:00.001-07:00

I've been meaning to post this video for months.

Renovation Chu rch - Atlanta, GA from Verge Network on Vimeo.

For some reason, I almost cry every stinking time I watch this.

the strength of my heart

2011-08-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

Since I moved to Atlanta, I've been deeply burdened by the broken places within the city. It is hard to go anywhere without seeing someone in deep need. And although that forces me to feel, sometimes I feel like it bruises me. The city is raw. I love that about it, but it can be dark. Too dark for me to bear alone.

We lost a member of our church family this last week. A ten year old boy from Trestle Tree was run over by a car outside his apartment. I say church family and I really do mean it. The heart of our church was ripped open. I feel like I lost a little brother. I brother I didn't know well enough but I loved deeply.

I'm angry. The sadness is under my skin and I can't get it out. I went on a long walk today because physical exhaustion is the best way for me to keep it in check for now. I find myself wanting to shatter something, because it feels like the city around me is crumbling and there is nothing I can do about it.

There is nowhere to direct my anger. It was an accident. But I can't seem to let go of the truth that this sort of accident would never have happened to me. It makes me feel privileged and naive. And unworthy of mourning.

I think that is one of the strongest lies I believe in times of grief. I become convinced that I'm not supposed to mourn, when mourning is clearly good. I live in a broken down world with plenty of reason to mourn. If I ignore that truth, I ignore the grace that was given me to escape this place. And, in turn, I ignore the goodness of my God.

In the last three months, my deepest joy has come from my time with the kids from Grant Park. And now, my deepest pain.
I don't dare ask Him why. I know He'll tell me when I'm ready to know. I don't dare direct my anger towards Him. He has proved to bring the most beautiful hope from my deepest grief. I know it won't be different this time.

But, Lord, this is not what I wanted. I hoped for so much more. I wanted Quay here. I wanted to watch him grow up in the church. Watch him become a man after your own heart. I wanted to know him, to encourage him, to rejoice and mourn with him. I never wanted to mourn over him.

I'm angry at the brokenness in this world. Everything within my spirit rejects this reality.

But there is a glimmer of hope. I have not been this reliant on my God in a long time. He is the only one that can sort out this tragedy. Without him, Quay fades away. This accident wins and there is nothing left but striving after the wind. Without him, the city crumbles into dust, the darkness rolls into my life and into my soul. But He is the strength of my heart.

He promises hope. He promises that He knows Quay. He watched him grow up. He knew his heart, He encouraged him, He rejoiced with him and He mourned with him. And now He mourns over Quay's death. But only for our sake.

I don't know what the Lord is doing. And I'm finally learning to be thankful for that. Every day with the kids from Trestle Tree is an irreplaceable gift. The Lord is doing a great work in Grant Park. Without a doubt.

Please, Lord, continue to redeem the broken parts of this city. It is darkness in our hands and I can't carry this. We can't carry this weight.

You don't need strength to be strong.

2011-08-11T13:02:00.000-07:00

I often forget that, even in this shattered world, we are not alone.

There is darkness around us but there is Light within us. He hasn't left us without Himself.

There is this Willy Wonka quote that just popped into my head which seems incredibly relevant all the sudden. "We are the music makers. We are the dreamers of dreams."

I think our God calls us to dream. And I think a lot of the time He brings us great joy by shattering those dreams. Shattered dreams can feel like failure and bring deep guilt, and feel pressure to deny that we ever had them in the first place.We can't lie to each other about pain. Hopelessness. Doubt. When we lie, we are saying that the Lord was not working in the details of the story.

I've written about this before - the power of our own stories. But I can't get it out of my head. So here I am again with the same words and the same heart, urging myself and the people I love to crack themselves open. To share their stories. Because when we don't we say a lot more about our disbelief in God than we realize.

This Sunday my pastor shared a little of his wife's story. He read a blog post that his wife wrote a year ago, not long after she was re-diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. She wrote of the Lord's sovereignty and love, and her love for Him even in her illness. Her words were beautiful and real and I couldn't help but be thankful for the Lord's pursuit of her heart. I am encouraged to know from her faith that the darkness in this world does not win with a God like ours.

My pastor's wife also leads music at our church, and I couldn't take my eyes off her during the last two songs as she sang of the Lord's faithfulness and the hope of eternity with Him. It was like a punch in the face. I left fully convinced that the pain and sickness and hopelessness in this world speaks more about His love for me than anything else. When this world fails, we have lost nothing. This shattered world was never meant to satisfy.

the whole story

2011-07-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

It is easy for me to be cynical in this world. To look at the poverty and broken families in certain areas of Grant Park and believe the statistics. Many young men that grow up without fathers abandon their families later in life. Many men and women that grow up below the poverty line live the entirety of their life beneath it. But our God is bigger.

Today we organized a day camp for the kids of Trestle Tree. We split up into four teams and the kids played football, made crafts, fought over plastic bats....

I spent my day with the red team. A team of delinquents, really. We were the trouble makers, the rowdy ones. By the end of the day I was covered in sweat and melted face paint. But we played hard and I pray that some day, if not today, each of those kids realizes how deeply I want them to believe... even though I lost my temper once or twice.

Walking into the cafeteria for lunch today, I overheard my co-leader Dan talking to a five year old girl on our team. He was explaining the gospel in words she could understand. Speaking of how Jesus took the punishment for us because he loves us. And that taking the punishment meant that he had to die for us.

A few minutes later, Dan and I found the little girl weeping unconsolably. I scooped her up and carried her outside where Dan took her from me, explaining that she was upset because Jesus had died for her. I can't explain exactly where her tears came from - they could have been joyful because of his love, but they seemed like deep sadness, guilt even. Guilt because she caused the death of someone who did not deserve it.

She sat on my lap during lunch and I was able to ask her a few questions. I asked her why she was sad and she explained that she wanted Jesus with her. I was excited to tell her he's coming back, and she was excited to hear it. She didn't realize that not only did Jesus die, but he also lived. (And yes, I now realize this was the perfect time to insert, "But He lives in our hearts..."Dang. I'm still learning).

Anyway, that got me thinking....

How often do I tell the wonderful news of the gospel without telling the second part of the story? The part this precious girl couldn't grasp. The part where He defeated death, resurrected, ascended, and promised his return.

When you ask a child about Jesus, chances are he'll say, "Jesus really cares about us. He died on the cross to save us from our sins." That is beautiful truth, but if you're listening closely there is a huge problem with those words. The sentence leaves us with a dead God.

Maybe, we are so used to telling the story that we forget sometimes it doesn't make sense. And that's how you get a five year old girl weeping over a Man she never got to meet. But I think this runs deeper than this little girl's tears. I think it plays out in everyone's life. I know it plays out in mine.

I often live my life stuck on the darkness of the crucifixion, burdened with guilt. I live my life on Saturday, forgetting that Sunday is coming and with it the ultimate victory. The ultimate grace. It constantly surprises me how hard it is to live under grace. To accept the Lord's sacrifice and truly live in the freedom of it. But... that's how we worship, I suppose.

lights will guide you home

2011-04-03T16:59:00.021-07:00

There was this beautiful, gracious woman that helped raise me. I lost her to disease over ten years ago, but Tuesday we will put her body in the earth and I am realizing, for the first time, how deeply I miss her. And how blessed I was to love her.

When I think of my grandmother, my mind first flashes to a rest stop, somewhere between Birmingham and Atlanta, where my parents handled me off to my grandparents for a week. I remember there was banana pudding and I remember knowing I was safe.

My grandparents' house was pretty much made for kids. Acres of land and woods with two large vegetable gardens, a chicken coop and a stream cutting through the middle of it all. The first thing I'd do once I arrived was run down to the stream to see if it had been raining and the water level was high. Floating boats down the stream was the best way to spend the afternoon.

There were sticky pads in her tub the shape of flowers. The carpet in the living room was orange and all the appliances in the kitchen were avocado. She kept potato chips, bread and ice cream sandwiches in her freezer and we never left her house after a visit without a bag of skittles and m&m's for the car ride. She used to say with complete conviction that ice cream is good for you because, of course, it's dairy. And she is the without a doubt the reason I love coffee ice cream.

I've never thought much about legacy. How when we die we leave a little of us behind in the people that we love. But she definitely did - children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren that long for the Lord largely because of the beautiful way in which she loved Him.

It's hard to write about her and feel like my words hold any meaning in regards to how deeply and how fiercely I miss her. She was there at the beginning of me and she is part of the reason I've known love. But for ten years I've longer for this day, in a lot of ways. And finally, the disease hasn't won. My grandmother is Home.

love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

2011-02-08T19:42:00.000-08:00

In books, when it rains or a big storm hits it almost always means the main character is changing. The rain signals renewal. It has rained a lot in the last couple days and I have found myself hoping that the Lord works that way - that he has written my story like a book and with the rain my heart will soon soften and change, at least a little.
_____________________

Sometimes, I can't help but wonder how much my theology has crippled my understanding of God.

It is easy for me to convince myself that my God is too busy for me, especially when I pay attention to all the ways I don't deserve Him. The truth is that He is involved in every happening in my life. He is there. But I see him too logically - I can't see how a God big enough to cup the universe in his hands cares enough about me to craft the moments of my life into a specific story. But I couldn't be more wrong.
My God is a poet.
My God is an artist.
My God has the time.

Still, this break down in belief can set everything off balance.
I get to believing that I owe God something in return for his son's death. His son underwent the worst human suffering in existence because of me, and I have the audacity to believe in His spare time He planned out the details of my life. Well, I am called to believe that.

But most times I believe I owe Him my happiness.

A number of years ago, I drove to Birmingham to attend a staff reunion for a camp I worked at the previous summer. Late one night, one of the girls I was good friends with asked me if I was happy. I replied, "I'm not convinced I am supposed to be." She laughed and said that was a total "Anna" response and the conversation moved on. But I still haven't forgotten it.

I honestly do not remember a time that I did not fight against my desire for happiness as if it was a weakness or a disease. Happiness seems needless and naive as I read scripture about persecution, suffering, and the inevitable hatred of those dedicated to the cause of Christianity. During the darkest times of my life I have known deep joy that is not of this world. But it is still nearly impossible for me to grasp the authenticity of joy apart from suffering, as if joy cannot exist without its opposite - despair. So... what happens when everything goes right? When I get the job I've have been praying for or I find out that I'm healthy? I feel guilty. Guilty for a life of comfort that my Lord never experienced on this earth. Guilty because I don't deserve it.

What I miss here is that the beauty and depth of Christianity lies in the distinctive ability of believers to feel joy and genuine happiness during times of suffering, persecution, and despair. That is why there is an emphasis on joy in suffering, not because it is the only authentic source of joy. You know, maybe joy can't exist without despair. But it does not have to be my despair. I don't have to earn my right to happiness. He died so I could have it for free. It breaks my heart...but it sets me free.

I rely so much on the beauty and joy in suffering that I forget the beauty and simplicity of blessings. I allow my theology to confuse my perception of the Lord's desires for me, and I get to thinking that when things are easy, when it isn't a battle to believe and to hope, the Lord has given up on me. I start to believe he only teaches me through suffering and during times of rest He has abandoned me.

We have a God who has called us on mission for him. But he has not called us into suffering to pay back the death of his son. He has called us there to experience the joy of his son's victory. And sometimes, he calls us into times of great joy and celebration for no reason other than that he loves us.

There is no shame in peace. There is no shame in claiming the blessings my Savior died to give me. The greater shame lies in denying them.

My God is a poet.

To Live Fast and Die Young

2010-11-26T13:56:00.000-08:00

Before reading, play this song: . Maybe don't watch the video. I mean...you could. But it's really just for the musical experience, ya know. And the video is a lil strange.

I should have written this months ago. At dinner last night, MGMT came on in the background and Liz, Rae, and I were all reminded of our wonderful 14 day road trip blitz around the US. Every time we rolled into a new city we blasted "Electric Feel" and fist-pumped for the entirety of the song.

We left the morning after graduation. I was unsure whether I should go the night before and even as our car crossed the border into South Dakota three days later I was still a little shaky about my decision. But now, of course, I wouldn't trade those 14 days for anything. Well, yeah...pretty much anything. I mean, we all sacrificed summer jobs in Athens for it. That's commitment.

I'll write it out by city real quick so you can get an understanding of the rate and scope of our adventure. Athens. Chicago. Sioux Falls. The Badlands. Yellowstone National Park. Mount Rushmore. Seattle. Portland. Napa Valley. San Francisco. Los Angeles. The Grand Canyon. The Vegas. Phoenix. Austin. Dallas. St. Louis. Atlanta. Athens.

Epic.

Traditionally, I rate the success of any and every given day by the amount that I learn from it. And the reason I haven't commented on our epic quest via my blog is because I never quite figured out what I learned. I thought it needed to be about God and it needed to be life-changing. Buttt... although I had some wonderful conversations with God on the trip - one in particular on the rim of the Grand Canyon that I hope to never forget - He didn't shatter anything or bend my heart in a different direction or anything like that. Instead, I watched and listened for 14 days. I watched the United States fly by through the window of Abby's car and I saw...beauty. I remember realizing how stinkin beautiful the States are and thinking that the sunsets of Italy finally had a rival in the wide open skies of Wyoming, the cliffs of the Grand Canyon, and the mountains of Northern California.

I have always thought my older brother was strange for his disinterest in traveling to other countries because I believed that the most beautiful places in this world are not within the borders of the US. I was wrong.

Rachael says that she realized on the road trip why the US is called America the Beautiful. So true, Rae, so true. Maybe that's all I learned, and I'm okay with that.

Oh...but we did learn never to cram a stuffed earth tot inside the gas chamber on the dashboard. That makes it difficult to remember...ya know...not to run out of gas. Especially when you're rocking out to MGMT.

Hope does not put us to shame.

2010-10-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

If I hope all my life for healing and never receive it, am I a fool? Some would say yes. Last year I probably would have said that that kind of hope is a waste of time. That it is easier and wiser to expect little and then be surprised if something great happens. But that is unbelief. Why? Because the Lord delivers. Even if the world thinks we are fools for hoping, who is the world to us anyways? We were saved from the world a long time ago.

When I was sick, I was afraid to say that the Lord would heal me because I was afraid to give off the impression that I had an understanding of the Lord's plans. I thought it implied that I knew what was best. Because to me, claiming healing was me looking God in the eyes and saying I deserved healing and needed healing. Neither were true.

I mention this now because all of these emotions have resurfaced this week as I have been caring for a young woman with an autoimmune disease. A disease which has left her bed ridden for over a year, and sick for over six years.

I see in her what was in me last year. A fear to dream. A fear to hope because so many times she has gained enough trust and energy to hope that her next treatment will work, only to be tragically disappointed. Her symptoms get better and worse with no logical explanation. Who would expect someone to hope in a situation like that? As I was thinking that very thought last night I remembered . . .Jesus expects that.

As we were talking late into last night, trying to get her mind off of her pain, I could not help but think of Romans 5:5, "...hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us." Hope does not put us to shame.
I felt silly wanting to tell her to keep hoping. It seemed so right for her to give up already. I mean. . .it has been years since she was healthy, so giving that sort of advice made me feel naive.

But there is no shame in believing against great odds that the Lord will. . . Provide, Heal, Comfort, Restore. Still - I am so human. I look at what is around me and judge the odds on that. I forget that what is inside me is much more powerful than what is around me. Every doubt and darkness pales in comparison to the power of the One inside me.

We are free to be undignified. We are free to hope when all worldly signs say we are foolish and naive. If we hope but never see the restoration we long for this side of paradise, we are still incredibly blessed. Look at Joni Eareckson Tada or any other number of believers that are suffering from chronic illness. I believe that those people see a side of the Lord's mercy and grace that those who are healthy may never see - and it is truly beautiful. And on the other hand, if we hope and are restored...well there is no other joy on earth like that. Believe me, I have felt it.

We will never be made a fool by believing in the God of creation. Hope does not put us to shame. I have to constantly disconnect what I see on the outside to what I know on the inside. If I forget, my humanness takes over and it feels like there is nothing strong enough out there. Remember Abraham, Noah, and Mary - to name a few. Their hope against all logic, hope against all hope, did not put them to shame. And we serve the same God today that they served then.

"Have no fear of perfection. You'll never reach it. - Salvador Dali

2010-10-04T13:57:00.000-07:00

I've been avoiding my blog because I haven't been able to live up to my post about accepting failure and living in freedom. But, if you tarry till you're better, you will never come at all.

One thing I definitely know is that there is good in everything. As I've been searching for the good in my failure I got to thinkin'. . .We have to let ourselves change. We have to let ourselves believe truth. Live, breath and walk in it. Especially if it is a truth we have never believed before. Because belief is what changes us - sets us free.

I held a 5-month old baby in my arms this week. I have probably held 3 babies in my lifetime and when I looked at her I couldn't help but think about how she was blank. Unscarred. Whole. Healthy. She doesn't yet know of the darkness of this world. It made me think of something I read recently about how we are as helpless before God as a newborn baby is to her mother. I think the analogy got me thinking because I am at a stand-still with job searching and I am not completely sure what I want to do - much less what I'm good at. It's comforting to remember my helplessness. And even better - its humbling. After graduation, there is so much talk and thought put into "what do I want to make of my life," or "where do I want to be in the next few years" that I start to think I really want to choose. When really - I'd rather He chose. I'd rather admit my helplessness and take the first open door and let Him guide me if it all goes wrong.

Perhaps depression is more common in the world today than it used to be. Now. . .I don't know a whole lot about it - but I do know that some people see depression the same way they see ADD: over-diagnosed. A fancy term for when people are sad and too lazy to figure things out. But I don't see it that way at all. I think it is a term to describe when the awareness of my helplessness becomes perverted by my pride. Helplessness which leads to hopelessness and then to darkness. A darkness that enters the soul. Many people (perhaps the people who think depression is over-diagnosed) are able to cut off their helplessness before they lose hope. Whether they lean on God or not, they can distract themselves from their doubts soon enough that they don't give up when they feel overwhelmed by their helplessness. But a whole lot of people can't.

We are supposed to feel helpless. On our own, we are lost. Our complete reliance on God is not weakness, it is beauty. It is grace. If I don't breath in every single day what it is that I believe I get to thinking that my helplessness is a flaw. And all my efforts send me inward into an attack of self. A loss of hope. A world of darkness. A deep depression.

I am a wreck of a person.
But I have a hope beyond myself.

Above all, love each other deeply.

2010-08-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

Ten or so months ago I received a phone call from my good friend, Will Mott. He asked me to have lunch with him between classes. This was strange because, although Will is one of my best guy friends, we don't have lunch together. We actually don't do anything together just the two of us. I met him for lunch downtown fully expecting him to talk to me about my best friend, Liz, and tell me he was upset with her. Liz and Will had been having strange little disagreements in the preceding weeks and I thought Will might finally explain to me why. Well - he did. He told me he wanted to date her. He told me he had wanted to date her for over a year.

I walked home from that lunch replaying every interaction Liz and Will had ever had over and over in my head. He had caught me completely off-guard. I was given strict instructions not to share this new knowledge with anyone and when you live with five of your best friends who share everything with each other, its quite a challenge.

Liz and Will started dating a week or so later and it wasn't long before most of their friends (and both of them) knew they were a good match. I still remember the day she told me she was in love with him.

I cried the night Will asked Lizzy out on their first date. I think most of the Pope Street girls did. It was a beautiful picture of the Lord showing his daughter that he knew her, cherished her and had plans for her. It was during a time that Liz was struggling to believe in the Lord's provision, and I was struggling to believe that any of our prayers and pleas were being heard that year. The last month or so in our house had been hell.

I cried last week when Will called me on the phone and said first thing, "I want to marry your best friend." I had to sit down on the floor and catch my breath. It was months before I thought there would be any talk of engagement. But more than that - those are words everybody wants to hear about the people they love most in the world.

I realized a couple days ago that for years I have been praying for Will. I have prayed for the man that my best friend would marry and asked, above all, that he would be a man of God. I could not approve more. Will is one of the most joyful and creative people I know. For him to marry the girl who teaches me more every day about the reality and attainability of joy is more than perfect. So congratulations Liz and Will. I can't wait to celebrate with you on your wedding day.

The gift of failure.

2010-08-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

When I boarded the plane for Pennsylvania I felt like I had made a mess of everything. I know I've mentioned before that failure seemed to be a theme throughout my senior year, but as the summer played out it was especially ridiculous while I remained unemployed and moved back in with my parents. And it wasn't that I knowingly made a lot of bad decisions or anything. I tried to 'follow all the rules' and seek wisdom from the right places in every decision I remember making. But at some point last year I lost my ability to tell up from down. The black and white I used to live in became grey and all my decisions turned to guesswork.

But I figured working at camp might be good. It would at least be a break from unemployment. Within a week I knew something else was going on. When my campers first started pushing the rules, being disrespectful, etc. I thought that this would be great chance to learn how to deal with kids. How to talk to them, have fun with them, listen to them, discipline them. Nope. Wrong again. My summer at camp quickly became another lesson about failure. But better than that - a lesson about accepting it and not letting it break my heart.

Since camp was a job it made it a little easier. If I lost my temper with my girls I was not doing my job well; I needed to do my job well. So I either learned quickly how not to be discouraged by their attitudes and complete disrespect, or I went home without a paycheck. Sounds like Survivor? That's because that's what it was like.

Camp magnified my post-graduation-identity-crisis and forced me to find answers. Quick. I learned not to take people's criticism so personally. I learned that even if everything bad someone said about me was true it didn't matter. I learned that every single day I have to remember who the Lord thinks I am and cling to that like its my job. Unless I am grounded in the truth that, yes I'm a failure and yes, I am redeemed, I cannot live. That sounds like something I should've known and heard all my life, but I was never in a situation of such discouragement and self-consciousness before that required me to know and remember those specific truths.

I thought when I got home from PA I would need my parents to love on me and remind me daily that I'm not worthless. That I'm not unlovable or disgusting or completely and totally annoying. But I didn't need it. As I thought I was being ripped apart, the Lord was actually building me up. He was showing me all the ways the world could see me, some true and some untrue. And he was letting me know that it didn't matter. It doesn't matter if everyone thinks I'm ugly or creepy or boring because HE doesn't think that.

I know I messed up A LOT of things last year. I tried my best not to. But- its alot like my parents always told me in school after a failing grade. They asked me if I studied hard and did my best. And when I honestly replied that I had, they said that was great. It wasn't about the grade it was about the effort. If I am seeking the Lord's wisdom and I screw everything up. . .I am still okay.

He's perfect, not me. I am going to try to live like him. When I mess that up I am going to remember that. . .of course I did. I'm not Him. I'm not capable of perfection. My story - whether I live well or I make messy mistakes - isn't the point. And why live in guilt when He doesn't want me to? He did everything that was needed to free me from that a long time ago.

I am a complete failure and I am completely free.

rambles and such

2010-08-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble writing. I'm actually having trouble thinking. I keep looking forward to the day I'm back in Georgia where my heart will feel home. And then I expect I will be able to sort my thoughts and share what has been bumping around in my head. But I have a secret fear that none of my thoughts from living in Pennsylvania will ever be sorted. Because there is so much. So much I'm thinking and seeing for the first time. I'm afraid when I'm finally taken out of this atmosphere I'll forget all about it. I hope not, because then why did I come after all?

I think heaven is a lot like college. Or Athens. I wonder if many people feel that way about their college experience. But really - I don't write that flippantly. I really think its true and this is why: Community.

Okay. . .I know community is a buzzword right now and I hesitate using overused words, especially when I write. So let's pretend we're at L'abri Fellowship and I'll define it for you.

Community is. . .sharing life. It is cookouts and book clubs and long talks over cream soda about what is on your mind. It is being willing to borrow. To depend. To share not only what you have but who you are. And for Christians, who you are is who God has let you be, who God has made you to be. So sharing yourself is really sharing Him.

Now - the great thing about college is that I didn't really have a choice. I didn't have to choose to live in community; I was forced to live in community. To rely. To serve. To give and to get. And now I am terrified of ever living outside of that sort of love. And the reason I am terrified is because I don't think we were ever intended to leave it.

But I think now we are called to leave it.
I think...

I've been reading through the New Testament books written by Paul and there is something I'm not getting. Paul doesn't seem joyful, and yet he mentions joy as a fruit of the Spirit. He mentions it a lot. Paul yearns for heaven. For life on the other side of glory. And yet he has stepped out of his Christian community and chosen to preach the gospel. And sometimes he is in places of darkness. And sometimes he aches for the Church.

My thoughts are all over the place.
What I'm thinking is: Every Christian needs to leave Christian community for awhile. And when I say leave it I really mean leave it. Because when you live in Christian community all your life you can rely on it for all your strength without even realizing it. And that sounds good until you realize that doesn't neccessarily mean you're relying on the Lord at all. And there is a chance that, really, you are only living a life honorable to the Lord because all of your friends are, and not because you have chosen to believe and then take on everything that goes with that.

I'm aching to be back in my community. But I can't help but feel like I am supposed to leave it. At least for awhile.

Exploring

2010-08-03T20:17:00.000-07:00

Kelly and I explored a couple adandoned buildings today...an old church and a motel.

No matter what, motels are always slightly creepy.

My summer (so far) in photographs.

2010-07-15T19:30:00.000-07:00

Every week or so I get an off day and this week I ventured into the city with Kelly and Jordan. Turns out - I'm falling in love with New York City. Even though its a little too big for my taste, there is so much history there. And history is one of the things I find most beautiful in the world.

But then, I returned to my life at camp. . .

Oh my crazy, crazy girls.

Learning

2010-07-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

I took a job last minute at a camp in Pennsylvania. Last minute because I heard about the camp for the first time only 36 hours before I was on a plane headed for New Jersey. I sat on the runway at the airport in Charlotte for 6 hours joking to myself about how, if I hadn’t believed in total depravity before that moment, being trapped on a plane beside a 45 year-old woman that doesn’t know how to communicate without complaining assured me that it was true. Now I see that those 6 hours on a delayed flight was a teaser for what was coming.

The camp is 7 weeks long. Campers come and stay for the whole summer. I live in a bunk with eleven fifth grade girls and two awesome co-counselors from Chicago. I teach six periods of photography every day and when I’m not doing that I’m with the girls from my bunk.

The last seven days have been the hardest I remember having in a long time. Who knew a fifth grade girl could make you feel worthless? I guess I like to think that at twenty-three I am secure enough in who the Lord has made me into that someone’s negative opinion of me won’t shake me. I was wrong.

But I think I can survive this. And yes, that sounds dramatic. But today was the first day I had the strength to stick this out. The strength to be ridiculed and torn down by a group of girls I am dying to break through to. The strength to come up with creative and fun photo projects for kids who refuse to admit that anything is good enough for their time. The strength to love people that I struggle to find any good in.

But as my mom reminded me today – the Lord did that. I don’t think I have been given an opportunity like this before. An opportunity to love because I’m called to and not at all because of the way someone loves me back. With privileged 10-year olds who have never gone without anything they’ve wanted, I struggle to find any reason to treat them better than they treat me. And then … I remember the reason. And it hurts, but its real. And it’s evidence of the Lord’s love in my life and his hand in my story. Or my hand in His.

I got a chance to pray over all the girls’ beds the morning before they came. I prayed over the girls by name. And a couple times a day, usually in a discouraging moment when I consider hopping a plane back to GA, I really look at them and think about how, maybe, no one has ever prayed over them by name. And maybe that is why I’m here.

senior exit

2010-05-07T12:45:00.000-07:00

I went on a walk last night with Paige and got the chance to explain to her my senior exit project for interior design. And why I care about it. And I have been wanting to write that here - mostly so I wouldn't forget it, but also because sometimes I need to prove to myself that there is meaning in the way I spend time.

We were told that our senior exit project should solve a social issue. And over Christmas break I got to thinking about Athens and what issues there are that interior design could improve. Homelessness was the first thing that came to mind. But I didn't want to design a shelter for Athens or a half-way house. I wanted to get to the root of the problem and see if I had anything to say about it.

So I researched affordable housing projects. I researched how design affects the way people feel. And how maybe the place where a person lives plays a part in their ambitions, motivations and, later, in the way that person lives his or her life. I considered redesigning the government housing on Baxter and Broad - but that didn't seem like enough of an answer. And then I thought about what it is that really puts people on the streets. And I believe that, in part, it is the loss of community.

Without someone to do life with, whether it be family or friends, people lose motivation. We were intended to live in community. And yeah, community is a big buzzword in Christianity today so I cringe to use it so much here, but I do think that a need for community is real, and biblical. And obvious - just look at middle-to-upper class depression in the suburbs. There has got to be a connection there.

So I found the old cotton mill on Pulaski Street a couple miles from downtown and designed an affordable housing community. More than a quarter of all Athens-area residents are living below the poverty line (which means they are paying more than 30% of their annual income on housing). Affordable housing is a definite need. My redesign of this sweet brick building on Pulaski contains seven private apartments for families - preferably dual-earner families working minimum wage jobs. Along with the private living space, the building now contains a community center with a library, study, workroom, laundry facility, TV/seating area, dining area, and group kitchen. The occupants of The Mill will share evening meals, with a different family cooking each night of the week. This frees up time each night to spend as a family or in community. There is also a garden, outdoor patio and grilling area, playground, and basketball court.

In society today, single parents are now required to do what grandparents, aunts, uncles and neighbors all used to do together. Living in community can fix that. Single mothers are no longer raising their kids alone; older couples are no longer cut off from the community they were used to; new married couples are surrounded by families they can learn from an serve.

For the last two years, I have struggled to find meaning in interior design. It is hard to spend thirty hours a week in the studio designing hotels and restaurants that will never exist. And even if they did - I wouldn't believe in them being built. But at some point in the last two years I opened my eyes to the need for design. And now it is hard to think of doing anything else.

When I graduated from high school my brother wrote me a letter encouraging me to ask questions. To seek out answers. To rebel a little. To read a book that's not a classic. To break into Sanford stadium, join a club, take classes that don't have anything to do with my major, and to join a movement. We laughed about that yesterday and my mom asked me what movement I joined. I didn't have an answer. But I know what movement I want to join. Currently one in seven people in the world live in a slum or refugee camp. There are architects and designers around the world joining in the effort to design for this humanitarian crises - to provide shelter where it is most needed.

I want in.

But until then, I'll be putting my BFA to good use working at bar in Athens, or something sweet like that.

Grace.

2010-03-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't think I would ever write this post. And by God's grace I got to a point in my heart when I didn't need to. And because of that everything is more beautiful.

Could I be a little more ambiguous?

I came home early from class today and rummaged through the cabinet for something to eat because it's the end of the month and money is running low. I found black beans and corn, which actually turned out to be a great meal. No one was home to talk to while I ate so I actually turned on the TV. If you know my house then you know its a weird day when the TV is turned on. After four straight minutes of pressing buttons and trying to get the stinking guide to stop covering the screen, the TV landed on that show about baby stories. I don't know what its called and it is embarrassing to admit that I left it on that channel - because I'm not a huge fan of babies or reality TV. But the TV had defeated me so I sat down and watched this lady talk about how she was having her second child and was worried about her pregnancy. She had undergone a liver transplant at age 13 and went on to explain that women who have organ transplants usually don't carry their child to full term. And all of the sudden I'm covering my face with my hands and weeping. But this time it's tears of joy.

I don't have PSC.

A liver biopsy came back last week with only mild evidence of inflammation in my liver.

I'm not going to need a liver transplant.

The pain I have experienced for the last few months is not going to last my whole life.

I can have kids without worrying about being sick and missing out on parts of their childhood.

I can get married without feeling like a burden.

I can travel.

I can take risks.

I can live, actually live. And it wasn't until this week that I realized I had somehow forgotten that I could.

But what is better than all of that is that for the first time in two years I believe in the character of God without having to struggle and wrestle and question. I knew He is faithful, but He has given me the grace to see it in my life. For at least this one moment, my definition of good is aligned with His. I feel like I'm drowning in His grace.

I have a million thoughts to work through. I can't do the Lord's work any justice by trying to explain it here. All I can say is that He is who He says He is and it is not because I am healed. He would have been the same God if I was being rushed to the hospital right now for emergency surgery. But He has given me the gift of himself this week. And that is what I really wanted.

I constantly doubt the Lord. I don't really doubt that He exists, but I do doubt that He loves. I doubt that He listens or even cares. Sometimes I am fully convinced He uses us at His own disposal and thinks nothing of our own good. And in the last year it has become harder and harder to believe Him. As I have looked down at my swollen hands or across the room at my best friend who I nearly lost, I have almost given up. But He hasn't let me give up completely. He gave me enough strength to hold on. To believe that He is enough. That He is fighting for me in the best possible way.

I came to a point this year when I accepted He wasn't going to save me in this world. That my health wasn't going to get better and it was now up to me to believe that disease is the best. He helped me believe that. And if I get sick again, I will believe it again. But instead of Him deserting me like I deserve, and instead of Him holding my hand and walking me through sickness as I expected - He made me well. Not my body.

My soul.

My heart.

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts. "

If I never feel the amount of joy I have felt this week ever again in my life I won't be surprised. Because this joy doesn't come from this world.

and we're back

2010-01-15T20:06:00.000-08:00

I have learned a lot about forgiveness in the last week. About how it is an action and sometimes we have to do it over and over because when we hurt the pain snaps back on and resentment can start over. I wish I could forgive like the Lord does - forgetting completely our sins and seeing as as clean each time we repent. But thank God he is patient with us and lets us start over when we need to try to forgive again and again.

I am reading the book When Jesus Weeps by Joni Eareckson Tada right now. I'm almost done. No book I have read before has spoken so perfectly into what I am questioning and unsure of about God, and suffering, and pain.

All I want to do is write section by section what I learned from Joni's book. But that'd be ridiculous. So, I can say, I have learned that hurting is okay. And that it isn't always our fault. Sometimes, yeah, it is a consequence of being an idiot. Or being selfish or just plain inconsiderate. But sometimes we hurt simply because we live in a place that has fallen from glory.

I watched Good Will Hunting for the first time over the break, and I'm not recommending it although it does make one wonder why Robin Williams has yet to win an oscar for anything he has done (Dead Poet's Society...come on people. That's epic.) In one of the last scenes Robin William's character looks at Matt Damon and tells him that the pain and abuse in his life isn't Matt's fault. And he keeps repeating it over and over, "It's not your fault." And Matt Damon starts off saying, "Yeah, I know" every time as a reply. And then he stops replying and you watch him really get it for the first time - that the abuse is not his fault. The pain. The abandonment. And Matt Damon loses it and its the bets man-crying scene ever.

I didn't think a whole lot about that scene when I first saw it, other than that the acting was fantastic. But as I have been learning this week about. . .a million things. . .that scene came to my mind. Because to me, I associate pain with sin. And I still think the two are associated. I mean, without sin there wouldn't be any pain in the world. But does that mean that every thing in our lives that causes us pain is a direct result of our sin? Can I trace back over my life and pinpoint the sin I committed which caused my disease? Most people would say no. Most people would say that they don't know why sickness happens, but to blame it on ourselves is not the right answer. But then why are people so impatient with people who are hurting?

I think a lot of the time Jesus is Robin Williams' character, looking us in the eyes and saying, "It's not your fault." Because when we give our lives to Jesus, we give ourselves away to sickness, abuse, abandonment and we say that since we know the Lord is good, we know that anything he works in our lives is good. But the best part is, we also give ourselves away to full joy, contentment, forgiveness, and the ability to love.

I am starting to believe I am better off with a liver disease. With full body muscle pain. With tears in my eyes almost every night. Because I have never worshiped God to the depth that I have in the last month, even when I was healthy, strong, and content. There is nothing as painful and beautiful to me as singing, "nothing is impossible with you" when I can barely get the words out smoothly because my voice is hoarse and has been for 2 months now. I can't wait for the day when I am strong enough to sing to him with a full voice, but I think for now, the hoarse man-voice I'm rocking is much more beautiful.

the end of the semester.

2009-12-14T22:51:00.000-08:00

I had a beautiful morning. I stood in a gallery with the three girls I spent the majority of my last three weeks with (five all-nighters, midnight coffee runs to Trappeze, finishing our night at the studio with the sun rising over downtown) and for about an hour and a half we presented our final project to two of the Interior Design faculty. Both of the men taught us in our earliest studio classes as ID majors, and we were finally able to receive feedback on the project we invested the last three months in. We filled all the wall space in the gallery with our project boards. Sixteen total and twelve material boards.

As I walked out to my car after our presentation I stopped in the parking lot and realized, I think for the first time, how much time and how much of my heart I put into that project this semester. And it wasn't even because I love design or I love my major (although this morning I really did). But being in the studio this semester became a place where I am safe. It is a place where I can do something well. A place I know I should be, at least right now. And there is safety in knowing that work is pleasing to the Lord, and that by doing it I know that at least one thing in my life is in place.

That project was miserable and it was beautiful. And I'm really not sure why because I'm absolutely not passionate about designing fictional 5-star hotels in Tokyo. But when one of the teacher's critiquing our project today looked me in the eyes and told me one of our spaces was beautifully designed and beautifully rendered I almost cried. Really. Which yes, is kind of funny. And yes, it had a lot to do with sleep deprivation (12 hours in the last 4 days). But also - it was proof that it was over. We had finished. And we hadn't wasted our time making something meaningless. Because in that one moment something I spent hundreds of hours creating was beautiful in someone else's eyes.

And also...a couple weeks ago I didn't think I was going to make it. I haven't woken up in the last two months without my joints and muscles aching deeply, and no doctor can figure out why. And honestly, it crushed my spirit. I cannot handle that I'm not the person the Lord wants me to be right now. I wish I could take a deep breathe and believe with all of me that even if this physical pain never goes away, the pain in my heart that it is causing will. I owe it to Him to believe that. But I don't know how. And when I lose any amount of hope I also lose my desire to create, which for me includes designing, painting, drawing, and writing. The last three I have completely cut out of my life in the last two months, but I couldn't cut out designing even though everything inside of me has been screaming that it just doesn't matter.

I forgot about the beauty.

When people get sick, all their dreams turn to smoke and drift away. And I wonder if they ever come back to how they were before. I wonder if I will ever be the girl I was before I started giving up so easily. I miss her courage. Her bravery. Her stubborn willfulness to believe that despite what we see, there is more to this world.

I saw hope this morning as I walked out of the ID building for the last time this semester. There were times lately that I have been in so much pain I didn't think I could finish out the semester with anywhere near the amount of work completed that was expected of me. But He helped. He helped. And that means He was there. The whole time. Fighting for me when I had nearly given up.

I wish I was stronger. Like Matt Chandler, I wish I could stand in front of you and say that even though everything is uncertain I am not afraid. But I can't. I don't even know if I ever will.

But I do know is good. He is here. He is sovereign and He is loving. He is listening. I am his beloved even when I don't deserve it and even when the physical pain I am in doesn't make any sense. But dang...I wish I wasn't so afraid.

We are so human. I am so glad He is not.

how i spent my vacation

2009-11-30T22:37:00.001-08:00

Check it. click here for something totally awesome.

2009-11-04T11:17:00.001-08:00

It's time to believe in what we know.

Sorting

2009-09-14T14:23:00.001-07:00

I have been trying to publish this post for almost two weeks. My mind has been all over the place I have had trouble sorting out what it is I am actually thinking about, and what it is I need to say.

I wrote my grandmother a letter today. She won't be able to read it, and even if she could read it she would not know who sent it. My grandmother forgot my face when I was in high school. She forgot my name shortly after that. I wish I could remember the last time she looked me in the eyes and knew who I was. I wish a lot of things. I think wishing is okay- it reminds me of how much love there used to be.

My love can't heal people. I didn't realize I was trying to make it heal people until recently. And now I feel so small.

I can't love my friend into believing there is grace. I can't love him out of his depression. I can't love my sister out of the darkness she feels while working with patients who die everyday. I can't love away the fact that many of those patients won't be with her in paradise. I can't love my friend into accepting that her dad's depression is not her own fate. I can't love her into accepting God's forgiveness. I can't love my grandmother into remembering my father's touch when he holds her hand. I can't love her into recalling my face or my name. I can't love her mind out of its deep exhaustion and the pressure of disease. I can't love my friend's broken family into full restoration. My love can't heal. My hopes can't erase deep pain. My advice can't save, no matter how well-rooted in truth it is.

This isn't really an entry on the power of prayer. It could be... because, yeah, that's the point. But the other point is that its not me. Because if my love could heal those people, it still wouldn't be me. My love isn't that strong. But sometimes, more than anything in the world, I wish my love could change something. Because if it could, my grandmother wouldn't be sick. And the Lord's love doesn't seem to be doing the job.

I am small but prayer feels big. And I owe it to God, for all He has done to save me, to trust that I can't heal for a reason. That things are broken for a reason. And that he has come and will continue coming down into time and space to put all the broken things back together. (yeaaah Christ Church)

I wish I could talk to her right now. I want to know what she'd think of my summer. Of my roommates. Of the fact that I stopped running like my dad, that I didn't go to Auburn, that I don't know what to do next year.

My grandmother prayed for me every morning for the majority of my life. She woke up at 4am to do exercises, prepare breakfast, and cover our family in prayer. It's funny to me that I am just now understanding how necessary prayer is, years after one of the most God-fearing women I will ever know has forgotten my name. She taught me about prayer from the beginning, but I am just now getting it.

I should pray because it is the best way to love. Encouragement is helpful. Gifts are comforting. Compliments, hugs, all those things - the five love languages - they are all good. But praying for someone is the best I can do for them.

The only thing that really matters is sitting at the feet of Jesus.

I will pray huge things for my friends and won't doubt that they can be done.

On the shoulders of giants

2009-09-01T05:51:00.000-07:00

These are quotes that made me think this summer. They are in order of awesome, and yet....not. Because words hit everyone differently.

Eustace- "In our world, a star is a huge ball of flaming gas."
Ramadu- "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of."
Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

“We must look at reality – look at it hard – ‘til at last we realize that there is no way out; ‘til we realize that we are children, that we are fools, that we are at heart conceited, stiff-necked rebels, who will get everything wrong, unless we are prepared to give up telling God what he should be like and what he should do; ‘til we realize that we can know only what God is pleased to tell us. We must listen and try to understand.”
The Goodness of God, John Wenham

"Not solidarity but fragmentation is the most visible quality of the way people relate to each other."
In the House of the Lord, Henri Nouwen

“When I see myself as a creature and a sinner in the presence of my incarnate creator crucified, I know that I can neither understand nor doubt."
ohh shoot, I forgot to write it down.

“In society and church alike we are heirs of the liberal over-emphasis on individualism.”
The Goodness of God, John Wenham

“When God endowed us with freedom of choice it involved the possibility of sin in all its horror – but even so, no converted man would wish to change his status to that of either an animal or a machine.”
The Goodness of God, John Wenham

"To participate in the real is to engage in something which inspires poetic awe."
Andrew Fellows

"Perfectionism is the hatred of the reality of being a limited person in an uncertain world."
lecture by Richard Winter

“To question is not to be unfaithful.”
T. S. Eliot

“Discipline is the gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice which desires our attention.”
In the House of the Lord, Henri Nouwen

Home is the place you left

2009-08-12T08:35:00.000-07:00

I'm home.

As I boarded my plane two days ago, climbing the steps off of the runway with the sun rising behind me in a pink sky - I said goodbye to Venice and remembered a quote from my favorite play, Our Town, when the main character asks the narrator if "human beings ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?" He answers, "No. Saints and poets, maybe. They do some." And I stepped onto the plane thinking that for the first time that I can remember, I was realizing life while living it. And now there is no other way worth living.

On the airplane home I watched the movie American Beauty. I am not recommending it. But there is quote at the very end that perfectly described my last three months. Here it is.
"I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me. But it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."

There is so much beauty in the world. I wish I had seen it sooner.

I have seen things this summer that are great proof of God's goodness, and things that instill great doubt within me. Silly prayers have been answered and heavy prayers have been left untouched.
This summer was a rough battle. A wrestling match. Me face down in the dirt calling out in anger, feeling unheard. Seeing everyone around me hear the Lord's voice and feel his direction. Doubting whether I actually believed anything good about the Lord. Asking questions buried so deep inside of me that I didn't even know they were there until Edith and Chris told me so. Learning to pray when I felt like I was surrounded by stone walls that only echoed back the sound of my own cries.

And at the same time, it was a summer of praises escaping from my heart more often than they ever have before because my body can't contain the beauty of England, Cortona, or Cinque Terre without throwing the praise back at the Creator. Thankful for the black-on-white contrast between the depths of last summer and the heights of this one.

There are a million moments I could share. Stories I could tell. But the point is this - I think we all need to realize how much beauty there is in the world. And if we can't see it where we are, we need to move. Because it is a waste of everybody's time to live blind to it all

adding to the conversation

2009-07-26T06:45:00.000-07:00

Living in a community of artists is far more demanding than I expected. It puts a pressure on me to achieve something, to "add to the conversation" as my jewelry teacher says. To not just learn the craft of interior design or jewelry making but to create something that matters. I think I have had that pressure on myself for awhile now, but Italy makes it tangible.

All that to say, this summer makes me think I shouldn't be an Interior Design major. It doesn't seem to have any lasting meaning. This is probably my attitude because we are designing a high fashion boutique in the heart of Italy. Ehhh. But I am aching to make something that matters. I don't know exactly what I mean by "matters." I don't think it needs to be something that adds to the conversation on a national or global scale, or even just in the art world. It is the idea of creating something meaningful that can make a stranger feel something within himself. It is about saying something that isn't necessarily about God, and being able to express for a stranger a feeling that he or she has had but hasn't known how to externalize.

So the final exhibition went up this weekend. The school rented out this sweet old bulding in Cortona and every student chose one work from the summer to display in the show. The faculty did the same. The show went up Friday and came down this morning. A short run. I was so impressed by the work we had all did. This was my favorite weekend in Cortona by far.

Instead of showing my final interior design project, I entered my jewelery piece into the show. I felt like I needed to but honestly it was mildly terrifying. I haven't created a work of art...maybe...ever. I have completed some paintings and drawings during college that I am proud of, but none of them had a concept behind them. I wasn't saying anything- I wasn't adding to the conversation. But I did with my jewelry piece.

I cast the lids to my seven-day pill box in sterling silver. I kept the plastic base the way it was. And in each of the seven containers I placed objects that have been an escape from taking pills. From being sick. From being scared. There is a tiny camera that I made out of wax and cast in bronze. It represents photography and also the decision to continue creating even when it feels insignificant. There are stones that represent my need to keep everything simple. To not worry or be anxious. There is the silhouette of a tennis shoe cut from the rubber of my own running shoes that represents... running...my most tangible form of therapy. There is a magnifying glass that represents my need to continuing thinking, learning, researching, and figuring everything out. To not stop caring. There is a tiny book, within which I have pasted a couple sentences from a letter that Paige wrote me this summer. Words assuring me that "PSC won't win," and that she is there to fight for me when I can't fight for myself. I cried when I read this part of note, realizing how much I had already let it win, and knowing for the first time that I am not going to have to fight alone. There are two tiny ceramic bowls that Britney made for me which represent communion with people. The community of friendship and the importance of not pulling away from people. And the seventh item is a silver ring, molded out of wax only to fit my finger, which represents the promises of God, that he is good, that he is loving. Promises I easily forget and doubt but the the main truth that gets me though.

I made the piece because I wanted to follow through with what I said I would do - to share. And even if I am the only one that benefits from it, I think I needed to be open. My friend Chris from L'abri is the most transparent person I have ever met. And Heather is a close second. And I don't think I will ever be that way. But I can be honest.

Creating that piece was hard, but I loved it. Britney and I had more than a few brainstorming sessions. The title alone took a whole morning. But...I wish it was possible to care about everything I make as much as I care about that piece. Studio artists are living the dream.

Maybe I'm just ready to be out of college and working with people instead of with my computer screen.

A good friend of mine told me once that he thinks every artist should create a masterpiece. I thought that was interesting, but I didn't know that I agreed. I do though. I don't know if I will ever make one but I understand the longing now.

Feeling whole.

2009-07-16T00:20:00.001-07:00

I have yet to say much about Italy. I need to. As I watch Britney and Heather and Joe and everybody around me on this study abroad, I can see Italy making impressions on them. Joe gets all worked up about Bernini. Britney covers herself in stone shavings and clay every single day, finding a sort of comfort in working on something deeply enough that she no longer cares about how dirty or uncomfortable she may be. Heather seems like sometimes she is barely scraping by, but she handles it such grace that I can't help but love watching everything fall apart on her. Haha. Sorry Heather....

Italy is...moments....all strung together into a tapestry more ornate than any I have ever seen. It is bright morning light streaming through pale blue shutters. Hundreds of swallows circling freely overhead in deep blue dusk. Cobblestones. Terra cotta. The crunch of gravel underneath leather sandals. The stone city wall as the sun sets over cypress trees. Italy is the music of guitars and accordions drifting up the hill through our open bedroom windows. Katy flitting around my room singing old jazz and Portuguese lullabies. Three course meals and late night roommate snacks of Nutella and toast. Clotheslines. Baggy jeans. One euro cappuccino. Getting to smile at the same old man and his dog during each morning run through the park. Italy is...comparing sketches instead of photographs. Voices blending flawlessly in the studio early Sunday morning. Plastic chairs grouped together on the fifth terrace. Italy is linen dresses twirling in the wind outside shop windows. Ancient Italian architecture. Layers of stone plaster, and marble. Fifteen hours of sunlight. Concerts in the piazza with gelato and a long journey home uphill. Italy is....mostly moments, which can't be captured in photos even though we desperately try.

Cortona may be the most beautiful place I ever visit. But I still miss home, and I love that (and hate it...). There is something about home that I have been trying to figure out -why is there "no place like home?" What is so desirable about finding a place of home?

I think that home is a feeling of security. And I don't have to be home to feel it - I need only feel safe. But there is a intricate depth to that safety. Maybe home for me is the last place I felt wholly loved. It is kind of like when a girl feels beautiful. Every girl can remember the last time she felt beautiful, if you ask her. And if she hasn't felt it recently enough it is almost like something is missing in her. Not something she can't live without, but something. That's like home.

I think we need the feeling of home at constant intervals or else we get drained. And no matter how wonderful a place it is, or how happy we are there, we still need the home fix. Home is a comfortable simplicity. Simplicity! That's it. And rest. And can you really rest unless you feel wholly loved? Well dang. That right there has been a major theme of my summer- finding a place of rest, and finding out what I need to believe about God, the world, and myself in order to find that rest. Feeling whole. Maybe not even being whole...because as Paige pointed out to me today, maybe we will never be whole here. But I think we can feel it...I think.

Shenanigans

2009-07-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk about cute old men. Oh but wait, we can’t. Because old men are on longer cute. They are creepy. And they have weird intentions.

So here’s a good story.
Britney, Elaina and I spent our first two afternoons in Cortona in the Carabinieri (the local police station). No, we did not get arrested. Yes, we did go Nancy Drew on this old man in the piazza.

Let’s start at the beginning. During half time of the Italy-USA soccer game, Britney and I leave the pub where we are all watching the game and go for a walk to the city gate. We see Elaina there walking alone and decide to take the long way back together to the dorm, up through the quieter streets of the city. It is beautiful. When we reach the top of one of the big hills (Brit’s calves are looking good) we see this cute 70-year-old man with his dog. Since Cortona is only a town of 1200 people, it is custom to say hello to anyone and everyone on the street. So of course we greet the man with “Buona serra” (good evening) and we stop to talk. He speaks absolutely no English, so Elaina takes over since she knows about 12 words of Italian. He keeps saying “belle”, which means beautiful. So of course we thank him. While Elaina is talking with him she is suddenly startled and looks at me with a strange expression. I ask her what he said and she only looks at me with that same shocked expression. I look to Brit for help on what I missed and that’s when it all goes down. The old man reaches over and grabs Brit’s chest. Yeah. You weren’t expecting that were you? Brit of course steps back and out of shock all three of us lose it. It is a weird mixture of laughter and confusion. During the mayhem Mr. Creeper reaches out towards me. I throw my hands up and he grabs my arm and isn’t letting go. So that is slightly scary for a few seconds. But I pull away and Brit grabs my arm and the three of us book it down the hill. We find out on our way back that did the same thing to Elaina that he did to Brit – thus her shocked expression that I couldn’t decipher.

We mention the incident to one of our teachers later that night, and the next morning sweet old Rick, the program director, tells us we have to go fill out a police report with the Carabinieri. And that is when the real fun begins.

Imagine us three girls, our translator Enza, and six Italian policemen all in one room. They all crowd around the desk because our case is the most exciting thing to hit Cortona since Rome conquered the Etruscans. None of the Carabinieri speak any English. There are many moments when five of them are loudly speaking over each other in rapid Italian, with Enza translating as much as she can, and me cracking up from time to time because the whole situation is just ridiculous.

The police in Italy dress sharp. But don’t be fooled by the fancy leather purse they wear around their chest that looks like it holds ammunition. When I asked the police chief what it was for, he opened his up and pulled out a pack of tissues. Yep. It is only for looks. He then proceeded to show me that the ammunition is kept in the gun.

After a long day of making official statements and signing my name on a sheet of paper typed only in Italian, we have to come back the next day to officially identify the man. Since Cortona is so small, it doesn’t take long for them to find a picture of someone we think is him.

So you are probably imagining the typical criminal identification that is on TV, with the men who stand in a line, and the victim is behind a two-way mirror where the bad guys can’t see them. And the victim looks at all the options and points to the bad guy. Welp, in Cortona it is a little different. Instead of a two-way mirror they give us a bathroom window. Yep. The three of us, along with two officers, cram into a bathroom on the second floor of the Carabinieri building and take turns peering through a crack in the window down into the courtyard below. They bring our little Italian man out into the open and pretend to have a routine conversation with him while we size him up. Who needs all the fancy CSI stuff?

Sadly we still aren’t one hundred percent it is Mr Creeper. It might have to do with the fact that is was 30 feet away from where we stood in the bathroom…but who knows. Enza wants the whole thing over with, so she has us follow him. She leads us out of the station and down the street and we search through the main areas of town to see if he is hanging around. He is— chillin with his old friends having gelato. We get a closer look at him (we pretend to buy gelato and lurk around inside the store, weaving an elaborate tale about how we are waiting on a friend who is meeting us for ice cream but hasn’t shown). The old man catches on. I see it in his eyes as he connects his random meeting at the police station with our awkward lurking around the gelato shop. But it is too late for him. He is done-zo.

We return to the Carabinieri; sign a statement. Make friends with even more officers. There is one lady, Ramona, who is not much older than us and knows English pretty well. We make plans to meet with her for cappuccino later so she can practice her English and we can practice our Italian. One of the officers (who looks shockingly like the weird older brother on Everyone Loves Raymond) makes the whole experience really enjoyable. He jokes around with us and makes funny faces a lot because he knows very little English. He gives me a hard time because I keep laughing when I am supposed to be serious. But they are all glad we are light hearted about the whole situation. They want us to still feel safe in Cortona. And I do.

But we still see the old man everywhere; He usually whistles when we pass by.

life's not a paragraph

2009-07-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

This is the view from my bedroom at dusk...
Last night, Heather read a bunch of poems by e.e. cummings as we sketched on the wall overlooking the valley. Thought I'd share my favorite.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelid's flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

Carpe Diem

2009-06-25T03:23:00.000-07:00

They served us french fries for dinner last night. That was epic. I realize more and more at each meal how many choices we have available to us in the states. In Italy, they have pasta with every meal. Then a meat, a potato. Salad. Done. At home, pasta is only a genre of food. We have tacos, burritos, huge meal-sized salad, burgers, chicken, tons of veggies, barbecue, pie, dip-n-dots, shish-kabobs, funnel cake. It's overwhelming. I plan to not eat any form of noodle for August and September. And if I have to, it has to be in a thick meat sauce like the Italians have never seen.

On a totally different note...I have been thinking a lot about the choice side of friendships, and the choice side in all of life, really. I have thought for a good while that as Christians we put too much emphasis on protecting ourselves. But we cover it sneakily by saying that we are protecting each other, when really we are simply scared. Matt Adair, my pastor in Athens, has asked our congregation a couple times how different would our lives be if we really believed the gospel. That's not a new thought at all, but every time I hear it I have to stop for a minute to think about it.

I think that if Christians believed in the gospel, the entire element of protection would fall away from relationships. (I'm not talking "guard your heart" here, if that's what it sounds like.) There wouldn't be hesitancy in loving each other. Not just in dating relationships, but in friendships and families. You never see Paul holding any love or honesty back from the churches in his letters because he is afraid that when he leaves they will crumble. He knows they won't. I think that is how friendships should be. Because if we don't love now, and seek each other out now to encourage, and really know each other deeply, when will it happen? It won't. So forget the whole idea that we should only tell a few people what we are deeply struggling with or deeply in love with. Because if our lives are really about other people and not about ourselves, then there is no need to keep quiet. To be reserved.

Share. That is what I am saying. Not deep dark secrets. But if I admit to someone once a week the reality of my doubt, chances are that person will be encouraged. And I'll feel a sort of relief. And that is a church. Everything I have learned lately that has meant something to me has either been out of Romans, or out of the mouth of someone around me. And if those people weren't willing to risk exposure and share their thoughts with me I would be...I don't know. Less. I would be less.

This all stems from my fear of not having enough time. There. I said it. But I think I'm more because of it. For the first 2-ish years of college I was the queen of putting a guard up. But I can't do that now. Because there is some reason I am where I am. There is a reason I have PSC. There is a reason I am in Italy. And my time is not my own. I learned that this year when I finally understood that my anger over being sick isn't really justified. Some people say it is when they are trying to encourage me. But I know that it is a lot better than what I really deserve. My time is not my own. But more than that, my story is not my own. I lost the rights to it when I became a Christian. How great is that?

I have to give back. That is the only way I can justify the incredible gift of being....here. Alive. Healthy.

Oh and the picture above is our fifth roommate, Jacopo. Brit and I adorned him with eyes and a bowtie. But he supplied the personality. Katie and Liza are slightly frightened by him, which makes it that much better.

I snapshot of Cortona

2009-06-20T13:07:00.001-07:00

Well hello. This video was made by a UGA student last semester in Cortona for his Italian Culture class. It is about Marco, the good-looking Italian teacher. Just so ya know, the chorus is something like, "all the pretty girls say, Ciao Marco"

I uploaded it so you can see a little of what Cortona looks like. It's beautiful. And small. And so Italian. And yes, there is an outdoor escalator. In the last shot in the piazza, notice the guy in red in the background. The best.

transition

2009-06-14T02:38:00.000-07:00

Well. I left L'abri about 10 days ago. I think it is likely that I should have stayed. But, my last two days there answered some important questions that I didn't know I had but that I needed to figure out.

Going from L'abri to the UGA madness in Italy is the hardest transition I've had. It was rough. Thank God for Britney.

On one of my last days in England I sat down with Jim, who was a doctor for people with terminal diseases before he left the medical field to work at L'abri, and was able to ask him what he says to people with serious diseases. The conversation was quiet, if that makes sense. Jim asked me questions, and he sat, and he thought. He was wearing a straw sunhat. I told him that sometimes I feel like I'm running out of time. And sometimes I feel like God is expecting me to do something huge with my life. But I don't know what He is expecting and I wish He would give me specific instructions so that I don't mess up - because I want His will. When I said all this Jim paused, looked at me, and said, "Anna, what do you want me to say that would make this conversation bring you peace?" And I thought for a second and told him I wanted to know it was okay to be ordinary. That I didn't have to do something huge with my life. That being ordinary is pleasing to God. Jim just smiled and said, "Anna, in all honesty I can tell you that being ordinary is pleasing to God." He encouraged me to live in the present moment. To hold on to the hope of eternity but not to yearn for it in a way that takes me away from my life here and now.

Jim told me I seem like I am always carrying around a burden. I think that simple conversation may have lifted it.

So I am in Italy now. Naples, Rome, now Cortona. I would add some pictures put my mac crashed so I'll get to that later. Everyone says that this study abroad changes your life. Heather and I laughed about that a couple days ago, but after seeing four Bernini sculptures and a room of Caravaggio's I think Rick may be right - I came as an art student, but I might just leave this country as an artist.

"To question is not to be unfaithful." -T.S. Eliot

2009-05-31T08:20:00.000-07:00

This is most likely my last post from the manor. I have a few more days here but I expect them to fly by. Sometimes I wish I could stay here all term because I would learn so much, but other times I can’t wait to get a rest from the discussions. I want to jot down a few of the things I have learned/noticed/grown to love while I have been here. This is mostly for my sake but maybe you will find it interesting. They are in no particular order.

1. Evangelism may not be about saving people. It may simply be about (1) bringing glory to God, and (2) bringing light where there was darkness. I’m still trying to figure out what all I think about that. But the more I think the more I agree.

2.The story of Noah and the flood, to me, is one of the saddest, most devastating stories in the Bible. It isn’t about the cute animals walking two by two into the ark. It is a story about an all-loving creator destroying his beautiful gift because it was trampled and perverted beyond repair by his own creation. We wrecked the most beautiful gift, an offering of love, and He watched as it filled with water and faded away, all because of our disregard. But he cleansed it and made it new again. I am an artist and I would never have the courage to recreate something that had been so misused and misunderstood. But God doesn’t need our approval. He doesn’t need our praise. I guess the whole idea of the flood makes me ache because I am looking at it as an artist. I wish I wasn’t so human sometimes.

3. We have turned relationship with God into consumerism. We expect back from him exactly what we put into it. And most the time we expect much more.

4. Christianity has become unappealing in the world today because people think they have morally outgrown the Christian God. We are beginning to see God as primitive. He seems egotistical, misogynistic, homophobic. Many feel that He is creating in us a need for himself and then hiding from us. We constantly find ourselves thinking, “I wouldn’t hide myself from a friend in need, so why are you?” We no longer see him as superior. What is the cure for this?

5. Introspection is a disease. It causes us to become locked into self. It crashes our ability to be – to participate outwardly. There are three functions of the human heart that connect us to reality: thinking, being, and doing. Introspection puts thinking over being and doing. It causes us to only live in the past and future and never the present. (Andrew Fellows lecture in introspection is fantastic. I'll try to swipe a copy before I leave.)

6. The miracles that Jesus and disciples perform in the New Testament have little to do with the actual miracle and everything to do with the character of God. I miss the point when I focus on the miracle’s outcome. I plan to unpack all of this during the remainder of my summer. 7. But...what rocked me yesterday: Jesus knows exactly what its like to feel like you don’t have enough time on earth. When I get crazy about being sick I give myself 10-15 years of health before my liver transplant. And then I usually forget to think about the possibility of life after the transplant. But when I add that time to how old I was when I was diagnosed, I get around the same lifespan that Jesus had on earth.

He knows what is like to feel like you don’t have enough time. He knows what it is like to be tired and want to retreat to an isolated place. He knows what it is like to be exhausted by missing the point – that it isn’t about healing or miracles. It is about the ultimate miracle of redemption. Alongside the magnitude of the redemption which Jesus brought, what is a weak liver?

Except with me, I was the one missing the point. The point is the incarnation. Any act of healing is just a minute reflection of the ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate act of love.

God is so other. I find myself ultimately frustrated my own misunderstanding of his character. Of his magnitude.

I need to believe that God is enough before I can ask for any type of healing. I have been constantly encouraged by people who love me to have faith like a child and ask for healing. But children don’t doubt that their father is strong enough or loving enough or concerned enough. In their pure, innocent belief they can ask anything they wish of their king. I am starting to see and feel the crushing magnitude of Jesus’ love. Only then will I be able to ask.

rehab

2009-05-24T08:02:00.000-07:00

We all went to a pub in Liss last night, It was about a 20 minute walk. We left around dusk so the walk was beautiful, and on the way home around 11pm the sky was clear and stars were perfect. I thought of you, Rae.

I went for a walk with Edith on Friday. She is my tutor so I meet with her once week to go over what I’m learning and get her insight, etc. We walked down Church Lane and I had to tell her about my last year, and being sick, and all the different thoughts that go with it. I told her that I am worn out with the talk of healing because that isn’t the point. Chris and I talked about that on our walk to Liss two days ago too. (Chris is 31. He’s traveling the world. His girlfriend Samantha is supposed to come stay next week as well.) He agreed and asked me what the point was. I couldn’t answer him. And that’s weird to me because I know the answer is relationship. God and me. People and me. But why couldn’t I think of that?

Edith asked all the right questions. I ended up telling her all the layers of the things I have been thinking and she didn’t make me feel ignorant or messed up. She told me to keep asking questions because there was no point of pretending like I didn’t have them. God knows I do. And I am not fooling him by trying to believe the facts I know about his character when I really don’t trust his character.

I have been thinking about that a lot the last two days. Especially as I have talked to Chris more about learning to feel and controlling introspection.

I think rehab must be a lot like this.

I need to admit my disbelief instead of force it away with biblical answers. Biblical truth. Even if I know the truth I may not believe it. L’abri is all about questions, and its good because I didn’t realize until being here how scared I am to ask them. I feel like I’m betraying God by doubting. But I guess it is more of a betrayal to pretend.

Edith said, in friendships, we often ask each other the same questions a number of times to get the full truth, because people don’t explain everything fully the first time. And sometimes you learn something new about a friend that doesn’t correlate with what you previously knew, and it seems like a contradiction. So you have to re-ask a previous question to figure out who they really are and how all the pieces go together. And it would be crazy not to do that with God. If something he has done doesn’t seem good it is okay to re-ask him if he really is good.

I wasn’t as tired after I talked to her. Last night after walking back from Liss, Chris and I sat on the stairs and talked— Kendra joined a little later. And he mentioned how thinking is exhausting. And its true. I feel tired, especially after this year, of trying to force myself into thinking and believing in parts of God’s character that confuse me. But forcing myself doesn’t work and then I’m lost in thought and I’m exhausted. Andrew and Jim (workers at L’abri) told Chris to stop and listen to the birds. I think we all need more of that advice.

“L'abri is somewhere between fantastic and rubbish.” - Jim.

Every day I understand that a little more.

tea-mania

2009-05-21T02:05:00.000-07:00

So yesterday as I'm on my knees pulling weeds from between the cobblestones outside the chapel, I realized that I really am in the English countryside. Daang. It is all that Jane Austen said it would be.

Here is yesterday's schedule, to better explain what the days will be like here:
Breakfast at 8am which consists of Wheat-a-somethings and toast. And of course hot tea.
At 9:30 it is morning chores. Kendra (from Canada) and I cleaned all five bathrooms in the manor yesterday and I leanred the mind-blowing fact that newspaper can be used as papertowels to wash down mirrors. Crazy I know. I got excited when it actually worked, and I don't think I will ever use paper towels again. Recycling can be fun, Abby.
At 11am there is tea time which Kendra and I prepared. Tea time is when everyone in the house congregates in the kitchen for thirty minutes to take a break from chores/studying.
Then it is back to chores and lunch at 1:30. Lunch is formal. We are split up into two groups, so it is about 12 people. We have lunch in one of the workers' apartments and there is always a lunch discussion. Anyone at the table can ask a question and then the whole table discusses what they think. Ryan, one of the workers who is my age, from Memphis, asked yesterday - What does it mean to be awed, and what awes you? I wish I could say more about that but I only have the internet for 15 more minutes.
I had a 30 minute break after lunch and Ryan and I played soccer, or football here, with Andrew Fellow's son whose name I still can't remember. The USA won the world cup.
Study time from 3-6pm. Tea time no. 2 in between. I listened to two lectures from the library during my study time. Dinner at 6:30 in Marta's apartment on the top floor of the manor. Cheese and brocolli soup. Then a lecture at 8 by Andrew which was really just a discussion of community and what it really is - since it is such a buzzword right now in churches. Then hangout. Then bed.

It is freezing here. Of course most people here think it is warm and they are wearing sandals. But I am all about the scarves and socks and layers. I seem to have forgotten that they don't have central heating in England. We did light a fire last night in the living room though, and Chris and I hovered around it - he's from Southern California so he is equally cold.

When I walked in the door for the first time Tuesday I met 5 people before I made it to the staircase. And within an hour we were all sitting together laughing and talking like we have always known each other. Which is crazy because it is never like that for me. There is so much tea I think I might go crazy. Tea with every meal and two tea breaks...and they conder why the British have bad teeth. But anyway, I think I was made for this place. Conversations here are...wonderful. I sat across the table from Kat yesterday (we both had a mug of tea in out hands) and she told me about her life and the struggle she has had in the last year. And L'abri is really going to be a shelter for her this summer. I wish I could stay and watch her. After telling me this horrible story about a disease she has been struggling with and how she will be on medication all of her life, she looked at me and said, "But it is good because I wouldn't talk to God otherwise." And that is it - it has only been a day and I'm already in love with the people around me. This is still going to be really hard. Especially if it stays this cold. But this place is rich. That's the only way I can describe it. I know it sounds weird. But it is rich with conversation. Rich with interesting, beautiful people- many of which aren't Christians, which to me is much better. Rich with questions. No question is not worth asking. I was made for this place.

2.5 days...

2009-05-16T11:33:00.000-07:00

I leave on Monday night for big adventures. For the first eighteen days I will be in this awesome place studying who knows what. And after that I'll be galavanting all over Italy with Britney... and you never know what all we will get into.

This week has been weird. I have been home getting everything together for the trip. My mom and I have been to every mall in the Atlanta area gathering things, which makes me wish I loved shopping. But I hate it. So it has been slightly overwhelming.

But, I don't think it is the shopping or packing that has been so weird. It is kind of crazy being here because my home has become a reminder of last summer. And don't get me wrong, last summer had some great memories. I was able to be near my parents when I needed them most. My sister lived in the room next door for a couple weeks and it hadn't been that way for five years. I was able to attend the church I grew up in. I took a theology class. I went to Boston and Nova Scotia. I bought my first camera. But last summer was long and lonely too. When I smelled the shampoo in my bathroom a couple days ago it took me straight back to the week after surgery when mom had to tape plastic wrap over my scar so it wouldn't get wet. It is always crazy to me how smells can bring back the most vivid memories.

There is so much I could write about all of that. About the people at my church I had never met who stopped me in the hall and told me they had prayed for me everyday since I got sick. About the conversation with my parents the day after I turned twenty-one and how angry I was for the week or two afterwards. About the nurses who I still miss sometimes and the bridge at Emory that I thought I would only ever enter when I was worried about my mom's health. But the point of writing any of this is to say - its changing. I'm leaving. And I know I am supposed to because I am not running from anything. This strikes me because if you asked last summer I'd have said that was why I was going. But I don't have anything to escape. That makes it harder to leave but better. I am not running from my disease. I think turning down wine at every meal in Italy will be enough of a reminder that I'm not like the other kids. :) I am not running from any sort of unhappiness or discontent at school or at home. So bring it on L'abri. I don't know what I'll study since there are so many things I am interested in and so many things I don't know. But whatever it is, it will be what I am supposed to learn.

So yeah, that's it: what is supposed to happen, happens. I was supposed to be home last summer when the only place I wanted to be was far, far away. But He flipped everything upside down instead. Now I year later, I am supposed to be gone when a part of me wants to stay and rest and explore the non-UGA places in Athens with Rae. But I have learned that when things seem hard, and when I ache because I am going to miss my friends, it is a good thing. Because they are a gift. Loving them is a gift. Missing them is too.

I'm ready to go.