I’ve been ruminating recently on the idea that there must be a secret that can get us through hard times. There must be a secret to healing along the way as we pick up wounds in our daily living so they don’t pile high inside us. I’ve been looking for ways beyond the obvious practices, the things we know we should do, that cause us to find peace, to see the face of God, to grow. I’ve been meditating on a phrase I read recently from The Artists Way: “Our quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity
Surrender. It seems too delicate a word for me to understand, the syllables lilting off my tongue like failure, like giving up. Surrender seems cowardly, a tiny white flag of acquiescence. The signal that a battle is done. I’ve never been one to release control lightly. I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve always fought for what’s important to me: justice, love, friendships, forgiveness, even for my peace. But on this June day the tufts of dandelion’s wings floating on the breeze in my backyard, their fluffed fairy dance, looking for a place to land, I am trying to remember how. Actually,
“The expectation that we can be immersed in suffering and loss daily and not be touched by it is as unrealistic as expecting to be able to walk through water without getting wet.” -Naomi Remen- I remember after a long, hot day in Uganda, sweat seeping through my shirt, after spending hours in the hospital with another one of the women in my community who was diagnosed with HIV, I would collapse on my bed, face tear stained, so exhausted I couldn’t think about making dinner. The reality was, those days were more typical than non typical. Over time, the
“How do we stop living like life is an emergency. Something to be sped wildly through.”- AnnVoskamp- I am thankful for the sound of the ocean crash on the sand. Yesterday I did something I normally don’t do. I took a day off. (insert dum, dum, dum, soundtrack here) A mid-week day, mind you. It was 80 degrees out and the road was calling. So I hopped in the car and did a spontaneous trip to Santa Cruz and Capitola with my husband. Now before you get all shocked and disapproving and assume I’ve turned into a hippie who works
Give thanks for the morning sunrise I am well enough to see. Give thanks for the husband still warm in bed, his arm over his head in dreams. Some days we give thanks because we don’t know what else to do. Because if we truly look we can see the gems shimmering through the mud and the mess. I slip out into the cool of the morning before the day’s heat drenches my shirt, and give thanks for that breeze and early stillness. The doc says I have malaria/and/or food poisoning which is less than reassuring with all the
I often wonder how Jesus felt after he came down from the mountain. The scripture is full of places where Jesus “slipped away into the hills,” and I’ve known the weight of why He did that. The sea of faces. The hands outstretched. The need. Ever growing. How did He feel when He came from being face to face with His Father, back to the life of human need. And demands. This is the hard part about meeting with God. It is so good. So good you never want to leave. And yet the world is waiting for you to
The new year finds me open and receiving, resting in these arms that long to carry me that I always seem to push away. After all the clutching and striving. After all the cement stained floors cradling a thousand tears, I let him hold me. I let God love me back to life. I get off the crazed swirling monotony of days and empty hands and babies and dirt and sweat. Because Uganda, while I love it, takes my little heart and rubs it raw. Too busy to tend it; I falter. I
“You must enter into the rest of God and that, My children, would mean that you have presented to Me those things which trouble you to such an extent of love and faith that you are able, indeed, to enter in.” -Bill and Marsha Burns- I’ve been thinking about what Bill Johnson likes to call the “rhythm of rest.” The seasons of work and rest and how important they are. And not just rest, as in watching our favorite TV show, but resting in God and gaining refreshment.
(Barbara, one of our Congolese girls who God has radically transformed!) (me holding a very frightened baby ) I’m going to be really honest with you. If you haven’t already figured it out already, being a missionary here in northern Uganda is not easy. You wake up to goats crying in the morning, a rooster crowing who you secretly long to murder, and your stomach hasn’t been “quite right” for about 11 months now. You deal with the disappointments of being betrayed by people you thought you could trust and the politics of church and culture that can be
I have felt a change coming for a long time now. I knew I could not keep up the frenzied pace I was running at, nor did I want to. I would read the words of Jesus that said “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light,” but every night I was falling into bed exhausted and emotionally drained. I have cried more tears of disappointment in the last 8 months than I have in years. This is not what it was supposed to be like. This is not what I was promised. I had come here to Uganda
Writer. Missionary Coach. Recovering perfectionist. I want you to know that you are loved and already good enough. I am about helping people move from brokenness into wholeness. Together, we'll make a more beautiful world.
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