He Wanted to Breathe

"I cannot breathe"

I don’t watch the news. Instead I watch Philip DeFranco on Youtube whose content revolves around current events. George Floyd was the center of his recent video. As I watched and listened to a man beg for his life my stomach soured. I can't not talk about it.

I’m having such a hard time writing this. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it.

But I lay awake last night thinking about it. I have this thought that I can’t touch on this because I’m not a person of color because I haven't experienced racism. But I am a person. Just like George. 

The original police statement said that he was resisting arrest, offering that as a reason for excessive force. But when a video went viral on Facebook we got a glimpse of the truth.

And that’s what makes this whole case another level of terrifying.

What would George’s death had been like if the bystander’s video hadn’t offered reality?

His family would have been left thinking their brother, their cousin, their friend had fought against law enforcement. Instead they know how he begged them for air. Instead we all know that he wanted to breathe.

What is this lie that your skin color defines value? And why, why the hell are we believing it?

Where do we get off deciding that one person is more valuable than another, and why is that lie centered around white skin?

I’ve heard it said that the ground at the foot of the cross is level. No one is higher, no one is lower, no one is more or less. We look differently to reflect the creativity and beauty of God. And we ought to embrace that, not put our knee on it’s neck.

George Floyd was murdered. Men made a choice. They chose pride, ignorance, and power over life. 

I’ll be damned if I ever do the same.

I'm Not The Mom I Was Ten Weeks Ago

“I feel like I could throw up.”

That’s the title I found as I scrolled through the notes on my phone. Curious, I tapped on it and read. 

       “We’re at 9 weeks. And about 4 days into a sleep regression and 2 days into sleepless nights. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.”

According to the American Psychological Association, one in seven women experience postpartum depression. And now, you’re reading the blog of that "one".  And it felt like one.

“I can’t be alone. I can’t even put my kid to bed without waking her up. When she cries, my stomach lurches. I can’t do this.”

My postpartum depression made me feel like I was the only one struggling. The only mom who felt this way. The only one.

“I ask, and I ask, and I ask God to help. To help her sleep. To help me sleep. And it doesn’t come.”

It didn’t matter if Will was by my side. It didn’t matter if I knew my mom was almost to my house. It didn’t matter if I read that God was always faithful. I had never felt so alone. 

        “I’m alone. I feel so alone. I’m just so goddamn tired.”

I don’t cuss in my blog, I barely swear out loud, but I didn’t want to edit anything out. Because this was real. This was the mom I was just ten weeks ago. I was sitting on the bathroom floor listening to Zara cry through a closed door wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again. I had happy moments, but moments are moments. And moments don’t last. My depression and anxiety were eating me from the inside out, a parasite I couldn’t shake. Just when I would think I was doing better something new would set me back. 

And then I got help. I was already receiving counseling, but it wasn’t enough. I needed medication and that was hard to stomach. But now, two months later, I feel like me again, and a new me because now I’m a mom. I was a mom before, but just the shell of one. Now I don’t cry on the bathroom floor (or the kitchen, or living room floor). Instead, I fall asleep on the landing and laugh about it later. 

I’m not the mom I was ten weeks ago. I’m not the Molly I was ten weeks ago. She was smothered in sadness and uncertainty. Now I’m smothered in baby drool and breast-milk and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Zara means, "princess; to blossom"

How did you pick the name Zara?” That’s a hard question, because I’m not sure if I really did. It was like Jesus whispered it into my ear. When we found out that we were having a girl that I could have sworn was a boy, the name Zara came to mind. I had never met a Zara, had never shopped at Zara, or really heard it very much, but I was fixated on it. 

We found out baby was a girl in July and I was very confident in her name which wouldn’t need to be decided until the end of December. But how could I be so sure about such a big decision? Then a list started and grew to 17 names over the months. 17 went to 7 and then 3 and then 2. We were driving to the hospital with 2 names in mind, not sure which one would win out. Then, I was sitting in the hospital bed ready to push and still not sure what to name our baby. And last, I was laying on the surgery table not knowing what to call this little girl. 

I was told that when I saw her, I would know, and I would always raise my eyebrows and nod. I had heard of others that were in similar situations and named their baby right before being discharged. I assumed that we would be in the same boat.

But, when they held my daughter over the curtain, my first thought was, “that’s a Zara”. I knew, I knew Zara was her name. It had been Zara all along. And we joked that only a princess would demand a c section. 

Zara is wild. She is funny, and sweet, and sassy. She is expressive and observant. Zara like to be cuddled when she wants to be cuddled. She likes to be noisy and enjoys when we’re noisy along with her. Zara likes to meet new people, flashing her gummy smile, bringing her chubby cheeks closer to her hazel eyes. She coos like a morning dove and shrieks like a pterodactyl. She is Zara. And she has been Zara all along.

Finding Love at Summer Camp

If you know me, you know I’m summer camp obsessed. Today, I was laying on the floor in my living room, listening to the song “Only One” by Harvest Bashta (or just Harvest on some sites). And I realized why I’m so camp obsessed when these lyrics came up:

 “So, come back, come back
I'll take you to the start
Come back, come back
I'll take you to your first love”.

I fell in love with Jesus at camp. That’s where it all started.

At camp. At Camp Aldersgate in Carrollton, Ohio. In the woods and on the dock stretching over Leesville Lake. That’s where I met my first love. He came and swept me up with a love I don’t know how to put into words.

Just like my relationship with Will, I remember little moments when I started to fall in love. I remember the first time I saw him. I remember the first time we held hands and how my chest was about to burst when he told me he would like to date.  Just the same, I remember when I felt God’s love, when Jesus came and placed his hands on either side of my face just to look at me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I’ve never felt that same feeling of falling in love. Just like I’ve never felt those exact moments when I started to fall in love with my husband. And that’s okay, because love grows deeper. But I can’t ignore where it all happened. At camp. It’s one of the reasons why I love it so much, why I can’t get enough. Even if it’s not Aldersgate, I can’t get enough camp in my life. Because I found my first love there, and he found me.

I See You, "Molly McCully"

To the “Molly McCully” in class. I see you. I know it’s hard. I know the numbers don’t make sense and others don’t seem to understand why you haven’t caught on. I know the steps don’t add up, but your fingers do, even though you don’t want people to see that you still count with them. I know the times tables are hard to memorize, and division takes forever.

I know how uncool it feels to raise your hand again and again, asking the same question you asked the day before. I know the feeling of wandering eyes, hoping your neighbor knows what they’re doing. I know the pressure to feel smart like your friends, hoping they don’t notice your low-test grade. I know what it’s like to take those tests home, feeling the uneasiness as it sets in your bookbag.  I know school isn’t always much fun. It’s hard. Sometimes, it makes you feel like your falling hard in the dirt, over and over again.

But, you know what? You’ve got the strength to get back up. Know how I know? Because I hit the ground hard many times, and I got back up. Thankfully for me, I had friends and teachers that helped dust me off after I was on my feet. And you do too. And you have me, because I know a little bit about what it’s like to be you.

So, take heart, “Molly McCully”, it gets better. I know you want it to get easier, but that’s not a promise I can make you. What I can tell you is that you’ll make it. And, hey, maybe someday you’ll sit across from a younger you, pencil in hand, math book open, hoping they understand that it can get better.

It Was All A Lie.

This morning I uprooted a ridiculous lie- my life should be good.

Nope.

Now, let me back that “nope” by saying that my life is so good, much better than I could have orchestrated on my own. Sometimes Will and I look around our apartment and wonder how we acquired all that we own. Whenever we came to the realization that we needed something else, an affordable option would wiggle its way in front of us. Super blessed, and very grateful for the way God used our friends and connections to help us fill, and find our first home. And that’s just our home and possessions. We both have jobs, loving families and our wants, not just needs.

Okay, enough about what we do have, because that’s not what I started this post about. I started by talking about a lie, a dirty, conniving lie that told me, “Psst... Molly. Your life. It should be better than this! Your missing out on something. God must be withholding it from you, because girl, you don’t got it.” Now, I’m very well aware who told me this lie. And I’ve had a little education on how to detect when I’m believing his lies.

If you look at what’s in quotations, you’ll find the word “something”.  All I knew was that I was missing out on something. Something, oh gosh I can feel it in my chest when I type now. Something is missing… but what? Nothing. Nothing is missing, but this lie made me accuse God that he was holding something back, something I needed, something to make my life… easier. Not better, easier. Easier so my life could feel good. And then this feeling of entitlement creeps up, and I’m laying in bed, with bitter tears rolling down my face, wondering why God isn’t loving and blessing me like I deserve.

Are you annoyed with me yet? I sure am. This non-specific lie I was being fed caused my heart to hurt and point the blame to the man on the cross. It’s his fault, he’s supposed to make my life better once I choose him! I’m supposed to be blessed, protected, loved! But that’s not what I signed up for. I asked for an anchor for my soul. An anchor that keeps me still through the storm, through the storm, not an easy pass out of it.

My life is so good, because I asked Jesus to lead it. And I don’t always like where he leads, but then he reminds me of a specific prayer I prayed, “Jesus, I’ll go anywhere you want to send me.” And right now, he wants me here. In a small school, in a small town, going to a small college to teach small children. But these small things I’m experiencing now are gearing me up for something big. This is a different something than the one I was believing before. This something makes tears come to my eyes, and dreams flash through my mind. This something has hope. And hope is the anchor to my soul.

From Pages to Nepal

You know what books do? They inspire. They introduce you to friends, enemies and role models. They hold your hand and guide you through the Chamber of Secrets and allow you to walk through the wardrobe endlessly. Books open worlds, minds and hearts to unknown passions. And the people that love books never keep the good ones to themselves.

In 10th grade my favorite trick was slouching in my seat and propping the text book between my stomach and the desk. But sandwiched in between myself and my education was often a book. I'm sure my teachers noticed, because what teenager looks that engrossed in a text book?

Whether they noticed  or not, I only remember one teacher recommending me books. She didn't just recommend good books, she suggested ones that she thought I would enjoy. And, as every excellent teacher does, she went above and beyond by recommending books that jived with existing passions I had.

But no book could compare to SOLD by Patricia McCormick. Suddenly I was sitting beside a Nepali girl in a dirty, Indian brothel, fighting for her freedom. I reread her story. Her hike through Nepal into India. Her days of being broken into the sex workers world. Her longing for hope when none was visible. Suddenly I had an unlikely friend that I had to set free. I had to meet her. I had to walk the roads in Nepal, a country I could barely locate on a map.

So I went. In 2015 I carried my own copy of SOLD into the very country that birthed the main character. I put the book in my purse and waited for the right moment. I wanted to take a picture holding the book with some Nepali girls. When my moment happened it was even more beautiful than I had planned.

These girls surrounding me are from a people group that was enslaved until just 10 years ago. Some of them were born into captivity, but because of those willing to fight, they no longer have to live enslaved. They are free. And I got to meet them. And hold hands with them and dance with them.

They're real, not held to the pages of a book. But without a book, I would have never met them. And without a great teacher I would never know what a giant impact a good book can make.

A Closer Look At Our Not Very DIY Wedding

Here are some pictures from our very not DIY wedding. Enjoy!

Warrenwood Manor, Danville, KY, Venue

Gourmet Goodies , catering

Sweets By Cindy , cake and cupcakes

Molly's Flowers and Things, bouquets and boutonnieres

Morie Lee, dress designer

Henri's Cloud 9, Minerva OH, dress and belt 

Angela Karla Bridal,  custom veil and all alterations

Men's Wearhouse, groomsmen's outfits

Kristin Vermilya photography, photographer

Goff Tents & Events, chairs

Kara Smith and Betty Miller were our coordinators

Kelly Taylor did my hair and Taylor Morris did hair and makeup for bridesmaids

Meredith Glover MC'd our reception and Elle Smith was our DJ
Kaylee Morin was my bridal assistant 

Anna, Elijah, Kristen, Will, Anna C, Ian, Kara, Betty, Ed, Mom and Dad helped with set up

Libby Thorngate was our ceremony pianist and Mike Harper ran sound

Pastor Jeff was our officiant and marriage counselor

Ben Fitzwater and Elijah Gates were our ushers and Courtney Raymond was our greeter
Our niece was our flower girl and my second cousin was our ring bearer

Tons of friends and family helped clean up

Skip The DIY Wedding

My wedding day is very much a blur at only six months since. I was warned it would be and those people proved to be right. It wasn't perfect like they turn out to be in the movies, and it wasn't a disaster, like they turn out in the movies. It was ours. It was our day. And although I felt like I waded through mud (very thick mud, similar to quicksand) throughout the preparations I was glad I did a lot of it on my own and with  the help ( a lot of help) from family and friends.

There were pieces of our lives scattered throughout our wedding. The windows from my childhood home were painted and propped up as decoration. The table that held our communion bread and wine (just kidding, it was juice) was built by Will over the summer. The spray painted mason jars came from camp and the sweets on the tables were Will and I's favorites. Every decoration had thought because almost every decoration was made by yours truley. What we didn't save on time we saved on money.

A Do It Yourself wedding isn't for everyone. It's stressful, even if you enjoy crafts and projects. But a DIY wedding is laced with you and those around you. It felt like everything that made up our wedding was held together by those sitting in those cheap plastic chairs (sorry, tight budget). Alterations done by a lifelong friend and music played by an old roommate... I guess our wedding wasn't really a DIY. We didn't do it on our own. Screw DIY. DIY is the opposite of what a marriage represents and it's not what the church represents either.

Skip the DIY wedding and allow the tribe around you to lend a hand and hold you up. A wedding day really does go by in a blur, and who better to spend that blur with not just the one love of your life, but the many.

Courage, Dear One.

You know what’s scary? Change. Now. Sometimes I like and invite change because I'm one who bores easily. But those changes are ones I can control and are normally pretty small or something to divert my attention. Like most people in the universe I need time to transition. But life doesn’t always give you time to do that.

I had no time to transition when I felt the impact at the back of my car and crashed into the sign I was suddenly careening towards. Car accidents offer no transition other than the ride to the hospital.

Not every life changing event happened at 45 mph, some happened over the course of 11 months as I planned our wedding. As much as I wanted to get married I felt myself digging in my heels, hoping that time would slow down. In the end I walked away, not only a wife, but full of memories I’ll cherish forever. Like the barn doors sliding open as I stood, waiting for my groom, arm and arm with my dad. That one’s my favorite from the day. And it only took about a year to plan.

There was a lot of coming and going in 2015. Packing and moving and leaving and crying and goodbyes. Some goodbyes were short lived, and some will last a lifetime. But there were also hellos. New ones and old ones and salvaged ones. Some lasted for only a second and others were practiced weekly.

Dreams were had. Streets were walked. Skies were flown. Seasons came and went and a year went by. Big (and sometimes scary) things happened in 2015. But I know bigger (and sometimes scary) things are yet to come. Things scarier than wedding dates and job offers. And I guess they don’t have to be scary. Instead they can be grand and beautiful.

I knew a year ago that I had a choice. I could choose fear or simply think of 2015 as an adventure. I longed to stick to the adventure but fear crept in, as it does so often in life. But it’s when fear is overcome that character is deepened and courage is gained.

I’m not sure how much courage I gained over the past year. It may have been little and it may have been much but I do know one thing; this adventure isn’t over yet. In fact. It’s only just begun.

I'm so sorry, Mr. President.

"...our thoughts and prayers are not enough. It's not enough."- President Obama

I'm sorry. 

If I truly believe that Jesus is my all and everything and that he is who he says he is then I must disagree, Mr. President. Just because you have given up hope, doesn’t mean I have to. It doesn’t mean we have to. Terrible, terrible things happen every day to people. But I don’t have to give into hopelessness. My soul is with hope because I gained hope. I showed a crowd of witnesses when I came back up from the water that my life is with hope.

I’m sorry you’re so hopeless Mr. President. I’m so sorry that you’ve given up hope that a great God works ugly things for our good and his glory. I’m sorry. You were appointed to lead us. So lead us to hope.

Don’t let death win. Death loses. Death dies, Mr. President. Don’t worry. These trials and tribulations here on earth hurt and drain and are terrifying. Sometimes life just sucks and it feels like our hearts will ache for ages. But don’t let that win.

Be courageous. Be brave! Hope again. Hope in the Lord. We have nothing else. We can’t win these battles, both unseen and in our face, without Him. We’ll lose.

Lead this nation to hope again, Mr. President. I know it’s scary, but He’ll come through. Even in the darkest of times. Hope will shine through. 

Constipated Much?

I’m five days constipated. Too much information? You should read some of the articles I’ve been reading to help with my flow problem, now that’s too much information. Anyways, here I am, day five into constipation, learning what it really means to count my blessings.

It started at camp on Tuesday. (Well, it actually stopped on Sunday, but you get my drift.) On Tuesday I noticed that this wasn’t a normal catch in my schedule. My bowels run a pretty tight ship, so when something goes off course I notice. I tell some people at camp and they give me Miralax and one of the girls runs into town (which takes about 20 some minutes) to get me apple juice. Nothing. Now I’m in pain, waddling to the toilet at almost every cramp. I wake up every 2 hours that night to have a less that satisfying trip to the bathroom and decide in the morning to go into town to statcare.

As I’m driving into town I’m praying for healing. But then my heart hits a wall. I miss my friends. I miss my fiancé. I miss my mom. I feel alone. My prayers are no longer focused on how uncomfortable I am. I just want to know I’m not alone. I just want my Heavenly Father to whisper, “Molly. I’m here. I’m with you. And I’ll never leave you.”

That was Wednesday, this is Thursday and I’m still backed up. My camp director let me go home; home to my comfortable bed, loving parents and my own bathroom. As my mom cooked dinner the radio was playing and I heard them talking about the hardship in Syria. Then an ad came on about the lack of Bibles throughout Africa. And then I thought, “I am so grateful that I’m only constipated.” With a new perspective I prayed for the people in Syria and my mind was brought back to just how grateful I am for the people I have in my life.

I have a mom that takes care of me, a workplace that wants what’s best for me, and friends that pray for my butt. My life is blessed. My cup overflows with goodness from the Lord, allowing me to see how faithful he is. He’s not just faithful to me, but to the suffering in Syria as well. Circumstance doesn’t define his character because HE IS. He simply IS. And he cares for me and my troubles just as he cares for yours and those less fortunate. That’s who he is.

So take a moment, let your perspective change from one of constipation to gratefulness and praise. Give thanks for the people in your life and lift up praise because we have a God who simply IS.

Hopelessness, Fear and a Wedding Date.

What have I learned so far in planning my wedding?

Hopelessness sets in fast and fear is hand in hand.

Dresses. I went to three dress shops. The first one I liked two dresses a lot. The second one I liked one dress overall. The third shop I found nothing. Absolutely nothing. Diddly squat. That’s when it came. Fear. My thoughts went instantly to never finding a dress, settling on an ugly dress, regretting my decision and on and on it went.  Wait. Didn’t I already find one dress that trumped all other dresses and that I couldn’t get out of my mind when I tried others on? Yes I did. So I picked it.

Venues. I’ve emailed and looked and searched for a venue that can accommodate and best fit what Will and I have in mind. What have I found? Booked. They’re all booked. Oh gosh. We’re never going to find a place and if we do it’s going to be $50,739. Lord have mercy, let’s elope! Wait. Didn’t one place say to email back in a few days because cancellation happen? Aren’t there plenty more places I haven’t heard back from? Aren’t there places I haven’t contacted yet? Yes there are. So I’ll continue to look.

Details. Colors. Food. Music. Housing for out of town guests. Style. Decorations. How do I do this? Is this possible? Can I make this all happen? Where will the money come from? Who will help? Now my inner self is in the fetal position, crying and blubbering about flowers and tablecloths.

Then I look down at my ring. It’s beautiful. More than anything I had hoped for. And I think about who I’m marrying. He’s wonderful, much more than anyone I had dreamed of.

 It’s not about what I can do or what I can plan. Sure, there’s hard work involved but if the birds have food and a home won’t I, a daughter, have a wedding that works? Won’t I have a wedding that at the end of the day I’ll be able to look back and be amazed at how God pieced it together? If I allow him to do so, then yes.

So I’ll allow God to be my planner, provider, and all around hope for my wedding, my future, and for my life. It’s not hopeless. It’s never hopeless. And fear? Well, that’ll be something I have to kick to the curb because there’s a wedding to plan and I won’t let anything stand in my way.

Betsie ten Boom

“And I saw it all, still I chose the cross” – Out of Hiding, song by Steffany Gretzinger

Yes, yes, it’s a great song, but I don’t want it stuck in my head at the moment; I just want to read.

I had been reading The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom and I couldn't put it down. (If you plan on reading this book there are some spoilers on the way, just a heads up!)

“And I saw it all, still I chose the cross”

There it was again, a line from a song that I listened to the previous night. It kept playing in my head over and over again as I read about Corrie’s life in the concentration camp during World War II. At this point in the book I was in awe of Betsie, Corrie’s sister who went to the camps with her. The way she lived and loved and extended grace was so much like Jesus it floored me. How could someone live that way with such unthinkable hatred and cruelty around her?

Then she died.

No. Betsie couldn’t die. She had to survive! She had to make it out alive! There was so much God was speaking to her. They killed her. They did.

          “And I saw it all, still I chose the cross”

No. Corrie had to just stand watch as her sister, her kind, gentle sister died. She didn't deserve it! They killed Betsie, they left Corrie alone! They did, they did, they…

I died for Hitler.

The still small voice that whispered to Betsie in the concentration camp whispered to me in my living room.

“And I saw it all, still I chose the cross”

That’s when the tears really started rolling. I listen to all these sweet songs about how Jesus loves me and died for me and I decided at some point along the way that Jesus didn't die for the really bad people. (Yeah... It doesn’t make sense, I know.) What Hitler did was evil; he allowed evil to triumph over millions. But Jesus still died for him, he told me so. He loved him and hoped for him and longed for him to come close. Just like he does for you, just like he does for me. Just like he did for Betsie ten Boom.

What used to be lined with barracks for prisons  is now a vacant piece of land of the Ravensbruck concentration camp, the camp that Bestie Ten Boom died at. I had the opportunity to walk the paths of Ravensbruck and go through the memorials; it's a day I'll never forget.

Like the lyrics? Click here to check out Staffany Gretzinger's album, The Undoing.

The Big Picture

When we see the whole story of the cross we can truly be grateful.

When we look at it one sided we miss out. One side is just sin; dark, depressing, filthy sin. Then when you look at the other side all you see is Jesus. Yay Jesus! And he really is great, don’t get me wrong.

But when you pull back to see the whole thing, you see a gruesome picture of your sin and Jesus in an earth shattering collision. You see “Yay Jesus” taking on all of your dark and filthy sins. Then you realize just how dirty your sins show up on white.

When you turn the page you see only darkness. You can’t wrap your mind around it. Your heart starts to drop and you find yourself on your knees. How could this be? I thought he was our hope… but now he’s gone. The realization that your sin has consequences and that someone else had to pay for them just doesn't make sense. It’s a realization that weighs too heavy on your shoulders to stand again.

          But the next page turns itself.

You’re no longer looking at your sin, but Jesus. He’s different. If possible, he’s more pure, even lovelier than before. He's more powerful, majestic and bearing new scars. And while you’re bawling like a big baby he leans down and tips your chin to meet his eyes. He takes your trembling, clean hands into his pierced ones and says,  "My child, it is finished.”

Hallelujah, what a Savior!  

A Journal Entry.

Why do you love me, Molly?

          Why do I love you Lord?

Because you saved me.

You remade me, rescued me all the while delighting in me. 

Because you defy the odds of society. 

I love you because you don't force me.
          You're gentle and humble and whisper and tickle.
You give my life warmth and something to hold onto when I'm freezing cold.
You love me and hold me and call me your own. 

                       Why do I love you?

                   Because you first loved me.

Because you died for me, cried for me and continue to provide for me.
You comfort me and let me weep,  you let me mourn and sing,  let me dance and swing.
           You send me on adventures I could never have planned.
            You give me gifts and never expect anything back.

              You say promise after promise that never ever lack.
I love you because you created life.

Life in abundance, you breathe art and hope and stars. 

I love you because You Are.

                                       I love you because you first loved me

It's Where I've Felt at Home

Home. I have felt it in many places.

I have felt it sitting on the porch swing at my parents’ house in Ohio, as I look out into the woods and pastures I have known my whole life.

I have called different camps home, as I walk through the dining hall or sit on the dock.

I now call my house I live at in Louisville home. I feel it when I grab my coffee and a chair and sit in front of the sliding glass door and look at the backyard.

I thought maybe home was places you are familiar with.  Then I thought about how I have said, “It just feels like home” when I have only been there for a few days. Why is that?

I have felt at home walking on the sand in the Outer Banks on vacation.

I have felt at home sitting on a roof in India, riding a bike though a town in Germany, reading a book in Nicaragua, and dancing with gypsies in Turkey.

So, the feeling of home can come in a place I have only just stepped foot in.

 I have felt at home in places I didn't blend in or didn't speak the language. I think that home is where you have a sense of belonging, even though I didn't look like I belonged while walking down the road in India. And I didn't sound like I belonged when I opened my mouth to talk in Germany.

Maybe it’s not that I have to look the part or sound the part, it’s simply the fact that my heart yells “I belong here!” But how can I belong to so many houses, to so many bunk beds, to so many nations? I don’t. But I belong to a God that walks and runs with me. He has made his home in my heart and my heart travels with me wherever I go.

But where is my home? If God has made a home in my heart, where is my home?

It’s not here, not yet. My home is in heaven and heaven has yet to come to earth, but we’re bringing it here, one day at a time.

It’s in the places that I have felt at home that I have seen a glimpse of heaven.

It’s been while sitting on the floor, walking down a road and laughing with others that I have known home.

It’s where I have seen his Kingdom come; his will be done, right here on earth just as it is in heaven.

Welcome Home. 

O taste and see

It was afternoon ministry and we had made sandwiches to take to kids that hang out at the local trash dump. Their families live off of the trash. I don’t think they eat what is there, but they use the resources they find while scavenging the mounds of junk. These families use another’s waste to maintain their homes. It was heart wrenching.

Mothers pushed and orchestrated their kids into lines to receive a simple chicken sandwich. I watched and took pictures as they were handed their lunch. I saw no life. Only sadness.I saw them smile but there was no joy. No hope. How do you find hope in a trash heap? You can’t. It’s lifeless.

I passed out bracelets to little girls, took pictures and made small talk with the moms. (And when I say small talk I mean very little talk. I only know a handful of Spanish phrases.) I walked around the enclosed area taking it all in. The dirty hands, the putrid smell, the downturned faces. Everything was so dull for a country that I lived in color! The rest of Nicaragua is vibrant and this place was hues of gray.

Hearing someone yell, I turned to watch a dump truck pull in and drive towards the back of the property. Then I saw the older boys begin to sprint towards it with their younger siblings trailing behind. Once they reached the moving vehicle, they jumped on the back and began to throw bags of “new” trash towards their siblings. Trash was being thrown and dragged towards their mothers and I watched with my mouth hanging open.

I had never seen something so disgusting. As I processed it later I realized I had seen that play out in my own life. I have chased the garbage truck too, hungry for new trash. The world was the truck and its hallow ideas of identity and satisfaction were the waste. You think it’s going to bring you something good, but it’s the same old thing just in a new shiny wrapper. But if you know nothing else, if you have never tasted hope, then why not keep chasing?

These families knew no hope; they had never tasted the riches of a relationship with the King. I have. I have over and over. New mercies are poured out on me every day. Mercies that give me a visual of how ridiculous I look chasing after the world instead of the Lord.

I have tasted hope. And I’m never going back.

A Most Common Question

Why do I do what I do?

I could give you a lot of reasons. I mean first and foremost, I do what I do because God has called me to do it. I mean, sure that’s a great “missionary” answer and what not, but it is actually true. If I didn't feel like God was supporting me and instructing me, I wouldn't be here. Why? Because that would mean he had something better in mind.

Next, is that I do this because I love it. Yep! I love it. Here are the things I love about it:

I love being able to do what I do best; hanging out, making friends, speaking truth. These are legitimate gifts God has given me. I love making friends. And what I love even more is when I have the opportunity to see transformation in the friends I make. 

I love interacting with teenage girls. Yeah, I’m not far from my teenage years in age, but God has taken me far from the mess I was as a teenager in high school. I enjoy being able to share my story and still share a laugh. I love leading them in prayer and then hearing them say, “I feel so much lighter now. Like, I feel like a physical weight has come off of my shoulders.”  Most of all, I love being there when they hear God speaking to them. When they hear God whisper, “I love you.” 

I love that I can have fun. I love having fun, it’s so important to me! I love that I get to lead others into fun and that God is having fun with me. I love that my life is far from boring. 

I mean, who wouldn't want to play with a 6 ft soccer ball?

I love being interwoven into someone else's story, just as they are now a part of mine.

I do what I do because I love doing it and because God loves me doing it. 

Plain and simple.

If you would like to know more about what I do, visit our website at http://www.ywamlouisville.org/. Or click here to go directly to the staff pages to meet my YWAM family.

It never leaves. His love is here.

But the Lords love for us is unchanging.

It reaches high, high into the trees, past the clouds and on into the starlit sky. His love is as vast as our oceans, and stretches even past the arms of our Milky Way galaxy. His love is here.

His love. It never leaves. How could it if it is continuous? How could His love even fathom straying for a second? It doesn’t. It never leaves.

     

      It’s never failing, never ceasing. It never leaves. His love is here.

         

      I can feel His love. It wells up inside of me, bringing warmth into my heart. It makes me bring my hands over my heart and seems to force my eyes close. I can feel it pulsating in my fingertips, and my mouth has to curve into a smile. His love literally lives in my heart. It bustles around and sways to the music. His love is here. It never leaves.

His love has been chasing me. 

And sometimes I run. But other times I allow it to catch up. And when it does, He mulls me in affection. It’s a sweeping hug and it knocks me off of my feet. His love surprises me. It never leaves. His love is here.

 When I take my eyes off of His, a new identity sets in. It tells me I don’t deserve His love. It tells me that I am unworthy, too disgraceful to receive a pure, limitless joy. The world whispers into my ear that I am to go back to the love I once searched for. The love that felt so empty, it could never sustain my constant thirst. That is the love the world offers, it is a love I have drank from and it never satisfied me. Never. It left me alone, feeling hopeless, humiliated. It came with no plans of staying, that love left. And I don’t know where it went.

      But just as the Lord never leaves you, He never leaves me. He held out His hand in hopeful expectation. And when I look up, finding Him there, I reach for his hand. It is then that I notice the scars, wounds deep into His flesh. And I know. I know those are because of me. Because I drank from a shallow well. But Jesus isn’t concerned with that. No, He’s too busy staring into my eyes, holding me close. He wipes away my tears and my shame melts away.

His love, it is here. And it never leaves.