To the Girl Who is Not Perfect (I guess that would be me):

Growing pains.... That's the only way I really know how to describe this week. Stretching, bending, pulling, aching.... painful.

I hate growing pains.

But I need them.

This culture is not familiar, and sometimes I feel like a giant trapped in a very small container with no room to move and struggling to breathe. These people are not familiar. They are different. Even the ones who share the same skin tone as I... I am realizing that we are all different.

Different places, stories, backgrounds, cultures, values.

I want to be in the familiar... with people who have known me since birth, love me despite my flaws, encourage me in my walk with Christ, understand my personality quirks.

Isn't that every human being's deepest desire? To be loved, accepted, understood?

I am learning that what works in my culture may not necessarily work here. I am learning that my tone of voice, my mannerisms, my thoughts, my facial expressions carry more weight than I ever imagined they could. I am navigating through new aspects of my personality I never knew I had... and how in the world do they fit here?

Unfortunately, this learning involves a lot of failing. A LOT of failing, and for the girl who has always tried to be perfect, quite frankly, it sucks.

I hate disappointing people, disappointing myself, failing to "get it", failing to get better.

To be honest, the girl who has always tried to be perfect has had her confidence shot.

And maybe, that's a good thing.

Because for three months, I have been navigating my new culture through my own human strength, my own wisdom, my own intuition.

But my own human wisdom is nothing but sinking sand, and when you build everything on sinking sand, it's bound to fall apart.

And it took falling apart to realize that I am trying to do this on my own, and I just can't.

Because the girl who always wants to be perfect just isn't, and she never will be.

Only He is perfect. Only He is my strength. Only He is the giver of wisdom and grace.

I am learning that sometimes, in His grace, He allows things to fall apart. I am grateful that in this circumstance, He allowed my confidence to shatter and break because I desperately need Him. Without it, I never would have realized how much I needed to change.

I never would have experienced the growing pains.

And now, my heart is growing up. 

For the Moments when your soul is dead...

     Easter... for me it has always meant shopping for the perfect dress, egg hunts, baskets with goodies, and endless rehearsals and critiques to get the musical just right. It meant family coming in for the weekend, Jackie Bagget's fried fish, and most of the men in the church suddenly growing beards.

     That was America.

      Easter this year is different.

      Driving through Manila on Good Friday, the place feels like a ghost town. Shops are closed, cars are absent, streets deserted. Manila on Good Friday is dead.

      Because here, God is dead.

      Last night, they walked all night, from one part of the city to the other to kiss a rosary.

      This morning, throughout the country, men carried crosses and beat themselves with whips to reenact His crucifixion and death.

      God dies on Friday.

       And my body feels heavy with the weight of such a day. There is no wind, the sun is oppressive, and my body just wants to curl in a ball in the corner and sleep.

        It's almost as if my soul believes it.... even though I know it is not true. My God is not dead. But my soul joins in their mourning, their lament, their pain.

       I want to scream as they carry their crosses, "You don't have to do this!"

       And I breathe thanks that God gave me the grace to know my salvation was not one that had to be earned. It was bought, bled for, died for. Yes, the cross is necessary. It's crucial. It's imperative.

       But the Resurrection is everything.

       With the Resurrection came power of death, freedom from chains.

        Because of the Resurrection, the man slowly dying on the first floor has hope for life, and his family knows death is not a goodbye forever.

       Because of the Resurrection, I will see my Lucy again, and any other dear child who will be called home before me.

       Because of the Resurrection... the little ones I love will not have suffered in vain, the sin that threatens to entangle me is conquered, there is hope beyond the present sufferings of this world.

       I listened to nine little girls outside my window, practicing their dance to "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin... they had no music, but they sang the words:

                           "I will rise, when He calls my name. No more sorrow. No more pain.
                             I will rise, on eagle's wings. Before my God, fall on my knees, and rise..."

       Nine little girls with their own horror stories, their own heartaches, burdens and fears. Nine little girls who may not have a clue what those words mean right now, but He is planting it in their hearts, writing His name and sealing His hope.

        All because of the Resurrection... they can sing, they can dance, they have life.

        Oh, He is not dead... Dear world groaning and aching, my God is not dead. He is not made of stone or clay or human hands. He is not appeased with sacrifices, penances, suicides and chants.

         And I can no longer allow my soul to be comfortable in a decaying apathy while those around me stumble in darkness.

         "Sunday is coming", we would whisper to each other, in anticipation of Easter Sunday when we would celebrate.

         Sunday has come. The Resurrection bringing eternal salvation. Hope and freedom.

         "Jesus has overcome, and the grave is overwhelmed. The victory is won. He is risen from the dead."

         Wake up my soul... He is alive. He is life. 

Beautiful Things

     I watch them... the joy on their faces, the wonder and marvel at new discovery.

     There is something so beautiful about watching a little girl as she discovers her world... when every flower becomes a garden, every move should be skipped or danced, when music is felt and not just heard.

     There is a beauty that is unveiled... when everything is safe, when she is delighted in, when there are arms for her to fall into for the sheer joy of being held, and then she can run away.

      There is a grace in their movements, a simple trust in their worship.

      And I am amazed... amazed that their little hearts would find me worthy of their hugs and kisses, their "I love you", and their hands.

      I am amazed that even after I am hard on them in ballet class, they still end with hugs and kisses.

     I want that... the innocence that somehow is not destroyed by a cruel world, a beautiful trust, a heart that offers whatever I can, and a spirit that can play safely under his gaze.

     I want to look at the world around me as though it is the first time.

     I want the freedom to laugh and rejoice just because life is beautiful.

     True, there is damage there.

     True, they are broken.

     But aren't we all?

     Sleeping on the first floor are countless examples of the enemy's desire to steal, kill, and destroy, but the graciousness and sovereignty of a God who says, "No"... A God who stakes His claim and does not let go.

     No, He doesn't let go. For all of our damage, our pain, our fear, He stakes his claim and calls us His own.

      The blaze of a warrior and the heart of a child... His will for me, for us, for them. How like my God to use those the world the world does not deem worthy to demonstrate His holiness, His power, His goodness, His grace.

     May I always learn from them... my little heroes, my treasures. May I always be in awe. 

Falling into a Verb

     And this must be what it feels like to fall in love...

     To discover new things about someone every day, treasure every detail, store them somewhere safe in the corners of your heart.

     I hold him close and whisper how much I love him, make bath time an event of splashing and singing, read stories, and whisper dreams in his ear. He lights up at the sight of a car, and he squeals with excitement when being chased.

     His wound... the open wound a surgeon said would require another surgery to close. Once it was full of infection, and really God, a third surgery? But God, my God, healed his wound. It is almost closed, on its own... a miracle only He could have done.

     And I watch him thrive. I watch as his temper emerges, his personality, his goofy run, and his huge grin.

     This must be what it feels like to fall in love....

     I am a small town girl transplanted into a big city where everything is unfamiliar, but little by little, is becoming home.

     I find my staples... my coffee, my sandwich, my burrito, my salad, my macaroon.

     I find myself recognizing turns and corners, walking as if I belong, moving closer to blending, every day discovering something new and wonderful.

     The smell is back... the sulfur, diesel, and random dispersions of chicken. It is a hot summer day and my soul threatens to melt, but this is life now and I learn to stay cool.

     Every day holds something new... a new discovery, a new surprise (man driving down a busy street with an ox and wagon?), a new something that becomes increasingly familiar.

     And this must be what it is to fall in love...

     I write out His character and search through pages to know who He is.

     I see Him... in their faces, on the street corners, and He speaks.

     And sometimes I listen and my soul wants to rebel and be independent, but my heart knows it never will be, and was never meant to be.

      And the more I know Him, the more I need Him with everything inside of me.

      In the midst of the struggle as the foreign moves to familiar, He bends me and stretches me, contorting my spirit into a tool He can use. And it's uncomfortable, intense, awkward, and I am so unsure. But it is also life giving, awe inspiring, humbling, grace flowing, beautiful.

       And it feels like falling in love. 

A Love Not Rejected, A Love Never Withheld

     Praise be to God, who has not rejected my prayer or withheld His love from me... Psalm 66:20

  

     I don’t want to be here, and that makes me angry. My selfishness makes me so angry.

    

     I am angry at the circumstances. It was supposed to be a simple surgery and now my little boy is in the hospital again.

     Infection. Swelling. Emergency surgery. And i find myself again sleeping within the four walls of a hospital bedroom.

     I feel guilty because I am angry. It’s not his fault, and the doctor said this could happen to anyone.

    

    I feel guilty because I just hate hospitals. I hate being the white girl in the hospital with the baby

 

     The only comforting thought is knowing that he probably hates being here even more than I do.

    It’s funny how open I am to assault and attacks when I am already beating myself up.

     “It’s your fault. You’ll never fit here. You’ll always keep failing. “

     And the comparisons add up… small enough, pretty enough, smart enough.

     I accept the attacks because in my anger and guilt, I feel like I deserve it. After all, no one can break me like I can break myself.

     Yet, this morning, he reaches for me when his nurses enter the room. He seeks my face for something familiar, comforting. As long as he is holding my hand, he’s ok.  We watch the tv and he points and says “car” in his sweet little voice. No smile yet, but he feels better. His little body is healing.

     And really, me, God? I get to be a part of this?  I who would have done anything to get out of it.  I am so bitter and angry. Surely there is someone more capable, more worthy of this moment. But His grace allowed me this time, this privilege.

     Gently, He urges me to let go. While he sleeps, I spill everything… my anger, my regrets, my pain, and hand it all over to Him.

     He doesn’t reject my prayers. He does not withhold His love from me.

     A love letter written by a five year old… words misspelled, mostly pictures, as my heart tries to speak what it doesn’t really understand. 

     I give it to him, my picture, my love letter of longings and dreams, trusting him with what is so precious in my eyes. To someone else, it will be the work of an amateur and would render a chuckle or an “Oh that’s cute”.

    He doesn’t reject it. He doesn’t patronize or belittle. He treasures, understanding my limited vocabulary, my human weakness.

     And he does not withhold his love… in spite of my anger, my pain, my refusal to accept what he is freely offering.

     In the face of such love, how do I turn away?

     He offers me this moment, snuggled next to my sweet little boy, holding him, watching him heal. Actually, I’m not really sure who’s healing… me or him. His body, my heart.

     And peace overwhelms.

     We are home. His open wound is smaller. His smile more frequent. He is eating everything, and he is just beautiful. There is a reason we gave him his name. It means “Happy”, which is what he is and has always been since he was a baby.

    He is a little miracle because really, in this country, his infection should have been much worse. It should have caused more problems. But He is healing beautifully, thanks to the work of an amazing and powerful God.

     He has accepted our prayers and answered with grace. His love is overwhelming. 

Good and Perfect Gifts

    Much-Afraid fell to her knees on the hilltop, bowed her head, and worshiped. It seemed to her in that moment that all the pain and postponement, all the sorrows and trials of the long journey she had made, were nothing compared to the glory which shone before her... Hinds Feet in High Places
     
     This time last year, I was in school, working on my thesis, trying to balance an education with discipleship, work, and extracurriculars. My Valentine's evening was spent with friends watching Audrey Hepburn movies and eating peanut butter M&M's (which if anyone would like to send me some, please feel free because I cannot for the life of me find them here).

     The past few years, Valentine's Day has been spent with friends, and then ended by an annual self analysis of why I am "alone".

     This year, by the grace of God, was different. I woke up at 4:30am because the dear little one in the crib beside my bed thought that would be a great time to wake up. But, to be honest, I didn't mind. I then dressed her in the cutest Valentine's Day outfit and was able to spend the morning with her until I took my favorite two year old little boy to the doctor.... where we spent the next seven hours.

     I keep staring at the clock, my mind wandering and wanting to go home. I am angry at the doctors who make me wait. I am angry because I have things to do. I am tired and my little boy is tired. The other parents and I look at each other with those exhausted smiles... and inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief that my baby's problems are fixable as I am surrounded by those who are not.

     Finally, we come home, and i soon as I set foot in the door, I am greeted by my little ones... smiles, hugs, kisses.

     I am tired... exhausted really, and a little sick. But this has been the best Valentine's Day ever.

     Because it wasn't about me. I never received flowers, a card, candy, or jewelry. I didn't watch any romantic (or violent) movies. I was even too exhausted to do my traditional self analysis.

     And it didn't matter...

     Because my new little brother is experiencing genuine love and compassion for the first time, and he is thriving.

     Because I am watching the incredible faith of a dying man and his family who are believing in a big God and so very grateful for the present.

     Because, as I write this, a sweet baby girl is united with a mommy and daddy who have been waiting anxiously for this day... the day they become a family.

     Because I sent a day with my favorite little boy, and it was beautiful.

     Because my sweet baby girl is healing... slowly, yet surely, she is healing.

     For some reason, the God of the universe loved me enough to seek me in my brokenness, restore me, bring my cold heart to life, and gave me the chance to be here. As tired or frustrated as I may be, I can say with certainty that my God is strong, loving, and good.

     Today was a gift... a beautiful and perfect gift.

     I am loved. I made the choice today to love. I love because He first showed me what love really means.
 

Choosing Beauty

     I love this...

     Waking up at 4am, the fights over nap time, eating, bath time, not being able to do certain things I once could do alone... all because of a certain little someone.

     She is work. A lot of work. And due to her background and current problems that are not easily fixed, she will continue to be a lot of work.

     But that's ok.

     I went to bed last night genuinely excited because I would be able to hold her in a few hours when she wakes up the next (and hopefully not sooner) morning. I stare at her face and memorize her features. In just a few days, I know that she loves juice and fruit, and especially yogurt. She fusses at bath time, but loves when I pour the water over her head. She is afraid, and so she must learn to try new things. There is life inside of her... I know it.

     I call her a  name that means "beautiful" because that is what He spoke to my heart. "Speak beauty over her". Beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit... beauty of tenderness, kindness, a grace that reveals the glory of God. The beauty of restoration, wholeness, life.

     Someday I will tell you the story of how God has been preparing my heart for her. but for now, just know that the creator of the universe is that kind, that good, that He will prepare us before He bestows His gifts.

     And this love is not a feeling. Sure, I get warm fuzzes and feel excited when i see her, but after three hours of crying, those feelings fade. i choose to love her. He gave her to me, for however long He allows, but I can choose to say yes or no.

     And I chose yes.