Grace to know more

What does it feel like to let your heart break for the hurt you've seen but to feel the closeness of God's presence like a blanket of strength? 

What does it mean to weep with those who weep and worship God at all times?

What does it feel like to crumble under the pressure of doing life on your own strength but to hear the voice of God quiet your heart?

What does it mean to sing praises in the face of hopelessness?

Asking these questions terrifies me, because I know they have answers.  The answers are beautiful and deep beyond words, but they are so, so hard.  Yet, I want to know God in these ways.  I do want to see his bigness.  I do want to know his love.  And I know that if I do not risk pain and failure and incompetence, I will never see anything bigger than myself.  That smallness terrifies me more than the questions.  God calls us to be strong and courageous, to fear not.  He promises to give grace to the humble. 

So, I will pursue the awe of God's strength perfected in my weakness. 

I will learn to
have courage
be brave
stay soft
and seek that grace. 

The Red Sea

Have you ever wondered what trust looks like in the wilderness on the other side of the Red Sea? 

First, what does it feel like to camp directly in front of your pursuing enemy, with nothing but God's physical presence between you and them, while "one does not come near the other" all night? 

Then, what is it like to walk across the sea on dry ground and make it safely to the other side? 

But what I really want to know is this: what does trust look like when your enemy starts across after you on the still-dry ground, baring down with purpose on the rapidly diminishing safe space between evil and your children?  What does it feel like to watch God wait until every last member of the enemy's army willfully enters into judgement before he closes the walls of water and executes justice? 

There's a girl at the Oasis right now whose life is one such battlefield.  Her mind is the wilderness, her past full of Egypt.  Her stay in the home has felt to everyone around her like the 10 plagues that are supposed to bring liberation, but feel a lot more like oppression in the here and now.  In her journey towards truth and freedom, she has been pinned between the giants of her past and the hopelessness of her future as she sees it.  The mental pressure has all but broken her. 

She accepts Jesus Christ as her savior and asks to be baptized.  Somewhere in the peaks and valleys of her painfully disoriented mind, she understands the gospel.  Two days after her baptism, she's busting out windows with a broom handle and using the shards as weapons against anything that scares her.  Which things are many. 

I don't know how to take this.  Are we looking at failure in the face of a sad, angry, scared girl tied to a bed in the psych ward?  Are we witness to victory in the truth that cannot be stolen from a daughter who has accepted the new identity and love of her true Father?  Is this a war zone?  Is this God trusting us with even more of his justice in the battle against evil in this world?  Will we live to see her healed? 
Maybe. 
I do know who is with her when she is out of reach of everyone else in the world.  When her house moms, therapists, friends, and parent figures are blocked out of her reality, God is there.  When she can't see him or feel him or hear him, God is there.  Throughout the entire maze of mental illness in her traumatized young mind, God is.  He is good.  He is love.  He is present.  He is powerful.  He is not worried.  He is just.  He is boundless.  Even.  Here.  Nothing can thwart his plan for her life. 

Though I walk in the midst of trouble,
    you preserve my life;
you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies,
    and your right hand delivers me.

 The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me;
    your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.

Psalm 138:7-8

How long, Lord?  For how long will the many multitudes of terrifying enemy soldiers march across the sea on dry land towards this struggling, vulnerable child that you love so much?  To what extent will our team have to bear the brunt of this brokenness in order to house the fullness of your justice? 

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me,
    for in you my soul takes refuge;
in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,
    till the storms of destruction pass by.

 I cry out to God Most High,
    to God who fulfills his purpose for me.

 He will send from heaven and save me;
    he will put to shame him who tramples on me. Selah
God will send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness!

Psalm 57:1-3

We welcome you, God.  All of you.  Everything you have to give.  But we need your strength to carry it all because it is too much for us. 

Home Is Where Your People Are

Hey, people.  I'm looking for the words to say how much I appreciate you, how much I really do carry you all in my heart.  I don't realize just how much I miss you until I'm with you again and I suddenly love you so much it hurts!  Thanks for all the love, and the quality time, and encouragement, and for listening, and for sharing your lives with me for a week.  I am blessed to have many "homes" and this… you… will always, always be one of them! 

Thanks for laughing and moving on when my guategringa spanglish got in the way of normal, socially acceptable English.  Thanks for filling me in on the little things that I miss when I'm away for 13 months at a time.  Thanks for making an extra phone call and setting aside an extra chunk of time in your busy day to re-connect with a friend who can't be there for you the rest of the year.  Thanks for asking the good questions and being okay with whichever version of the answer I had the emotional energy to give that day. 

Thanks for caring about who I am, how I am, as a person, outside of what I do.  Thanks for being who you are, as a person, as someone who loves Jesus and lives the life he's called you to.  Thanks for being good daddies and mommies and sisters and brothers… and for letting me see that work the way it was meant to.  That means a lot.  I know some days it's boring and exhausting all at once, but it's the most beautiful mess in the world!  Keep going, brave beauties!  I admire you. 

Most of all, thank you for letting me see Jesus alive inside of you.  Thank you for sharing your heart, your struggles, your joys, your dreams.  Thank you for your friendship.  I cherish every minute spent with you and look forward to next time! 
Hasta pronto… ♥ nae

// // // // // 

Los llevo siempre en mi corazón.  Creo que no me doy cuenta lo tanto que los extraño hasta que los miro otra vez y de repente los quiero tanto que casi me duele.  Gracias por todo el cariño, y el tiempo, y el ánimo, y por escucharme, y por compartir conmigo esta semana.  Soy bendecida tener tantos lugares donde me siento "en casa" y aquí, con ustedes, siempre será uno de ellos. 

Gracias por burlarnos juntos de mi espanglish chapíngringo y entenderme de todos modos.  Gracias por explicarme todas las cosas pequeñas que me pasan de largo cuando estoy afuera por 13 meses a la vez.  Gracias por apartar un tiempo especial en medio de todo lo ocupadísimo que son sus vidas diarias para compartir con una amiga que no puede estar presente con ustedes durante el resto del año.  Gracias por siempre darme la bienvenida e interesarse en mi vida en Oasis y por nunca dejar de orar por mi. 

Gracias por preocuparse por como estoy y quien soy como persona, aparte de lo que hago en mi trabajo.  Gracias por ser quienes son, como mis hermanos en Cristo, y por vivir con amor y entrega la llamada que él les ha dado.  Gracias por ser buenos papás y mamás, hermanos, hermanas y abuelitos… y por dejarme ver eso funcionar bien.  Me restaura.  Sé que entre veces es aburrido y agotador y una locura de ocupado criar a una familia, pero quiero que sepan que lo miro como el lío mas lindo en todo el mundo.  ¡Sigan adelante, hermosos valientes!  Los admiro mucho. 

Sobre todo, gracias por dejarme ver al Jesucristo vivo adentro de ustedes.  Gracias por compartir sus corazones, sus luchas, sus gozos, sus recuerdos, y sus sueños.  Gracias por su amistad.  Cada momento con ustedes es un tesoro y ¡espero con ganas verlos otra vez! 
See you soon… ♥ nené

Get Over Yourself

I used to shy away from sharing things I'd written.  Writing a basic newsletter became the bane of my existence as I complained of having nothing exceptionally worth sharing, so why bother?  Without realizing that this need to be-exceptional-or-bust was a rather self-absorbed attitude, I would attribute this reluctance to humility; I didn't give much importance to little ol' me throwing out more words into the sea of thoughts and typeface already swarming the globe via the world wide web.  This is still a valid point, but it bears mentioning that to think that my part in the story was all there was to the story, or to want to perfect my role before I was willing to share any of that much larger story, is the exact opposite of humility!

There's also a certain risk of embarrassment in making public something that comes from so deep inside your heart.  Do you really want to share what is happening inside before you even understand it yourself and can make sense of it for someone on the outside?  It's a little hazardous to share what you're really thinking!  You invite input, encouragement, new fingerprints on your thoughts, criticism, reactions, and even the possibility of silence, of nothing in return.  That's terrifying.  HIDE!!!  

 

But somewhere along the line, I started to get over myself.  Maybe it had something to do with living so far outside my old comfort zone for a while, who knows?  If so, praise Jesus for bringing something good out of this clumsiness!  Three years in to living in this beautiful country, I still make a fool of myself at least once a day, and often so many times a day that I lose count and go to bed early to cut my losses.  (That's when I'm wise enough to cut my losses… there's always the days I go for bank, but we really don't need to go into that kind of detail.)  I regularly commit cultural missteps, invent my own grammar, scramble linguistically unidentifiable syllables into combinations previously unheard by mankind, and sometimes provoke stares just by walking by people in the 180 cm tower of not-brownness that I call home.  (The weather, however, is absolutely lovely up here.  Thanks for asking!)  In short, who I am regularly causes laughter and confusion for those around me.

Just the other day, I failed to realize that "On your 'marcas', Get set, Go!" is in fact a feminine phrase, and thus earned myself an imaginary boyfriend named Marcos.  (Because what other explanation could there be for such lunacy?  I must certainly be in love.  With a Marcos.)

Bound to happen once or twice during lunchtime at the Oasis, and especially certain if I'm in the middle of an important conversation with some "ritzy" visitor, two grubby little hands will pounce from behind with startling accuracy, covering my eyes at lightening speed and clamping out every last sliver of light from view (save the fireworks that the human brain interprets from what can only be understood as pain traveling down the optic nerve).  This "blindfold of steel" will only be released after the identity of both grubby little hands has been properly guessed.  Having a 1 in 57 chance does give some hope of return to one's previous conversation, but there's really no telling how far it will have moved along without you.  I dare you, try to keep your composure and look professional with a mouthful of tortilla and no ability to maintain eye contact!

As for body image, I am so accustomed to having my stomach patted by little hands to check for potential babies that I often don't even notice which children are poking and commenting on my belly… until a visiting service team member gives me one of those looks that quickly snap ya back to reality.  My height, weight, eye color, skin color, and arm hair are all regular topics of curious discussion and I've grown to accept that. 

In 3rd grade, my identity mattered so much to me that I unofficially changed the spelling of my name, forever complicating my adult life, just so people would pronounce "Renae" correctly.  Since coming to the Oasis, however, I answer equally to "Kermit the Frog," "Froggy," "Renecia" (which means either "Cute Little Renae" or "Very Dumb One" depending solely on inflection), "Renesmee," "Coconut," a loud wolf howl (which obviously must be returned in kind), and even "Mr. Rene" for strangers who really can't understand why a woman would have a man's name.  (Clearly, I must be a man.)  The employees at the grocery store just recently stopped asking me if that was my husband's bank card (and giving me strange looks when I handed them my own ID) after my local bank made a typo and printed me a card with only my middle and last names.  Score!!  Thanks, Banky Mc Bankface!  You've worked wonders.

Lest it sound like I'm complaining, please allow me to assure you that I find each of these situations hilarious!  The list goes on and on and I chuckle my way through it every time.  The truth is, when the girls think it strange enough to correct me when I make a Spanish mistake, that's actually a huge compliment.  I may never understand the girls' stomach-poking ritual or the automatic assumption that the only thing my stomach could possibly be good for is carrying babies, but at the very least, those girls aren't afraid to be their strange selves around me, and that's the oddest honor I could ever receive.  Each nick-name they come up with has its own joke, its own level of trust and friendship, and I love all of them… except probably Mr. Renae... but even there, watching the Oasis "grandfather" have to explain to visitors that he is not Mr. Rene and that Mr. Rene is, in fact, a woman has got to be one of my favorite scenarios.  I digress. 

 

We work hard at the Oasis.  We battle evil daily with every weapon in our arsenal.  But we also jump on the trampoline, play airplane with the babies, hog-pile-on-so-and-so, try on fancy dresses from the donation suitcases, wrestle, tickle-fight, sing loudly off-key, and imitate each others' languages and quirky habits.

Sometimes, I really do leave work and go to coffee with friends from "the outside" and we talk about everything from faith, to politics, to boy drama, to jobs, to family, to growing up Guatemalan, to dreams, to struggles, to fears, to the latest Avengers movie, and we split. a. gut. laughing at some of the gringafied things that come out of my mouth, but you know what's more important?  We grow to understand each other.  These friends bear with me and peer into my world and choose to love the whole package for what it is, and I learn how to use their words and ask about their context that is still foreign to me sometimes, and I fully appreciate their contagious laughter.

At some point in the midst of all that crazy, I start to get over myself.  God changes me on the inside, and I realize that this part of his story is just that: one part of His story!  Every time I feel really, super uncomfortable (this is often, folks!), it gets a little more familiar and a little less terrifying.  It never gets comfortable, but I do become more at home in the awkwardness.  The more I get lost, the better I get at finding a way out.  The more I fail, the better I get at failing graciously… or at least hilariously… sigh.  A girl can dream, right?

I don't have to have it all figured out; I just have to be faithful with what I have been given.  When I learn to leave my identity where it belongs: planted firmly in God's hands as his chosen, redeemed, beloved daughter, I can dance freely into the world, come what may!  You can call me Kermit the Coconut for all I care; it won't change one bit how God sees me, and he speaks truth to my heart when I need it the most.

Others are going to look at me and see Different, or Foreign, Gringa, Missionary, MustOnlySpeakEnglish, Serious, Goofball, Important, Ridiculous, and a whole host of other things based on very little actual knowing.  They might read something I write and see Adventurous, or Hermit, Melancholy, Intense, Brave, Deep, NeedsToLightenUp, Confused, WayTooHopeful, and who knows what else.  They might put me in their boxes and leave me there and I won't like it one bit.  They might think things that are untrue, or see the still-ugly places and think poorly of me for it.  Ok.

Whatever they see, I hope they see Jesus.  I hope they see him at work.  I hope God's image reflects back at them as clearly as it does on the sparkling menagerie of broken mirrors that run around the Oasis every day.

The size of the shards, how they were broken, the order they were strung back together matters hardly at all when we're reflecting the love of the Master Artist, clean and bright.  No shame.  No vergüenza.  Each little creation needs to catch that light and fling it back all over the place.  When we don't; whether we're still grungy or not strung together yet, or not hanging out in the sunshine for fear of exposure... the world misses out on part of Him. 

I really don't want to miss out on the beauty that is for fear of the beauty that is not yet. 

So, here's to admitting our imperfectness so God can get to work.  Here's to God's strength showing up best in our weak areas.  Here's to letting the most creative and loving person in the universe shape us however he likes, whenever he likes.  Here's to throwing sin and shame under the bus, to embrace the freedom of living for God!  Here's to the Church worrying less about hiding our unfinished places and more about welcoming God's Spirit into those places so he can show off his crazy, redemptive goodness!

Friend, you are welcome here.  If you need a safe place to be who you are right now, cracks and all, come on over and sit with Jesus for a while.  Leave your scaffolding at the door and soak up his truth.  Let him tell you what he sees when he looks at you.  Be brave enough to reflect that light to someone else who needs to know his love.  Don't worry about the flaws they might see along the way; they're either too busy hiding their own, or they've recognized for themselves that God is at work in those flaws.  Either way, you're good!  Sure, it can be risky to open up to people--sometimes people hurt each other!  But do not cower in fear.  Embrace wisdom, but have the courage to be genuine, honest, available.  Start here, in the presence of the God Who Sees, who knows you already, who loves you already, and who has a track record of perfect faithfulness, and let him tell you who you are! 

 

Then listen as he whispers what you one day will be; I guarantee you won't regret it.

Tracing Pain

It's rather unlikely that a group of people visiting a foreign country would make it a point to stop at the national cemetery, but that's exactly where I found myself today.  Almost like a prototype of the country I currently call home, we walked among massive, opulent monuments to human power, separated by small fences and a world of difference from the other crowded "rental properties for the dead" that lie just behind them and just out of the way.  Referred to as "galleries" in Spanish, and a permanent fixture in Guatemalan cemeteries, these rental plots are essentially walls of stacked cement graves built at least half a dozen high and as long as the cemetery itself.  Space in the wall can be occupied until the rent is up, at which time the body is moved to a mass grave to make room for another.

They're bright and colorful, like so many places here, and are beautiful in a way.  But every time I see galleries, I think back to the day our Oasis family watched a tiny white coffin slowly disappear behind one of those walls of brick and mortar.  The scrape of the trowel rings in my ears and the dull ache of losing little Ashley tugs at the corners of my heart.  Her mama was still unstable in the hospital that day, and a whole group of strangers who would have become her friends had she ever met them mourned her loss together.

Today, we walked into the section of the cemetery reserved for babies, and suddenly, I stood in an endless, endless corridor of Ashleys.

I fought the overwhelming urge to walk down the middle of the entire thing weeping.  All my heart wanted to do was go back to that sad, confusing day, and unwrap the hurt, and let the tears come now that wouldn't come then, to wash it clean and offer it to God as holy.  But there were other people with me who didn't know about her, and didn't really know me, and to be perfectly honest I didn't really have the guts to be that vulnerable, so I turned my back to it and told my heart to wait.

I'm sorry I did.  I'm sorry I "kept it together" and pretended to be ok.  It was certainly less messy, but it was neither honest nor honorable; some things deserve grieving.

There is a child-mother who could not give her daughter life.
She is my little friend, and I have looked into her eyes.  She is real.  Her hurt is real.
All she wants is to hold her baby, but her arms are empty.
Her heart grew and her body laboured to make room for someone who never came.
"Abba!!  This is tragic.  It feels so broken here!  This hurts just to watch, much less to live.  This is never what you intended!  It never should have happened this way!  I know this hurts your heart …and, Abba?  It's too much for me.  I can't carry this by myself.  I need you so desperately.  I don't have the hope or healing; how can this possibly be restored?"

David spend a great portion of his time lamenting.  God has blessed us with pages upon pages of expressed sorrow in his word, and it is all holy.  Set apart as special.  Known by God, and close to his heart.  God is no stranger to lamenting.  Nor are there shortcuts for grief.  One of the places God is most present is in pain and sorrow.  Another place is in beauty and joy.  Sometimes, I think those places might be neighbors.  I think I need to realize that those neighbors are closely acquainted with each other and allow myself to visit God with them both.

Tonight, I returned to some of the sweetest words Jesus has ever spoken to my heart: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."  Beloved, when innocence dies, when your heart suffers loss, take the time to lament.  Do not cheat yourself.  Do not cheapen My grace.

When my heart has hurt the worst, God's comfort has been the sweetest.  I have known the holy beauty of grief only as deeply as I have entered into pain with my eyes turned towards Jesus and my soul folded completely into his embrace.

Have courage, trust God, and come grieve with me.  You are welcome here.  God is waiting for us.  This is holy ground.  Blessed are those who mourn, there is comfort.

For permission to weep and loads of Godly encouragement, please visit Davey Blackburn's whole blog!  

When God is too small

I'm free-falling over the darkest space I know.  Betrayal opens wide and threatens to swallow me whole as my deepest fears dance before me and threaten to become reality.  Sharp, jagged questions rip at my body but do nothing to orient me to reality, nor to hint at which way is up.  Balance gone, moorings failed.  Fear rips through my body and escapes my lungs in a desperate cry for help. 

I know there is hope.  Somewhere.  But grasp and flail as I might, I can't find it.  Terror rushes past my face as I force my eyes open because I know that truth exists and I desperately want to catch sight of it.  

Hope is believing that God will come to the rescue in the face of a still desperate tragedy.  Hope is knowing that the biggest story will have a beautiful ending full of poetic justice, satisfied wonder, and deep, bubbly joy. 

Trust is believing the only One who has ever passed through Death and come through victorious when he looks you in the eyes and says, "This death holds no power over you!"  Trust is knowing that God wraps himself around the ends of eternity and understands, even orchestrates, every last thing that seems hopeless and unfathomable for your good and for his glory. 

Somewhere in this truth, I start to find my bearings again.  I remember that the best weapon against despair is to praise.  But in this darkness, praise is my fiercest battle.  The doubts are louder than my faith.  The lies seem more real than the truth.  The fears are stronger than my trust, and I have a choice to make.  I chose to fight.  I don't always; there are times I just give up because that is so much easier, but this time, I fight.  I praise the just, faithful, loving greatness of God because I know it's there, not because I can see it. 

The pain crashes down one last time on my soul, but comfort trickles in behind it, wrapping around my heart.  Stars pierce the darkness and I can see again.  The bigness of God spreads out before me like an endlessly clear northern night, and I'm in awe at how vast it all is and how small everything else seems in comparison. 

My soul still hurts, but I can breathe again.  My heart is raw, vulnerable, alive.  This is what growth feels like.  Trust begins to take root again, sinking deeper into the cracks formed by doubt and drawing life out of the brokenness.  This is for my good and for God's glory. 

This is always for our good and God's glory. 

Jeremiah 18:1-6

Eternal One: 
Go down to the potter’s shop in the city, and wait for My word. 

So I went down to the potter’s shop and found him making something on his wheel.  And as I watched, the clay vessel in his hands became flawed and unusable. So the potter started again with the same clay.  He crushed and squeezed and shaped it into another vessel that was to his liking.  In that moment, I heard again God’s word for His rebellious people.
Eternal One: 
O people of Israel, can I not do the same to you as this potter has done? You are like clay in My hands—I will mold you as I see fit.

I need to remember this. Some times that's easier than others.

Whether it's watching a girl's face light up in a brilliant smile,
or the feeling of trust when she calls my name and runs into my arms. 
When she tells me the part of her story where God is teaching her and loving her and she's growing and learning and excited about it,
When she stands up for what is right because she loves Jesus and I actually get to see it,
When I hear of her thriving in every way back home with her family,
When my whole day is filled start to finish with the most rewarding work I could ever ask to do and overflowing with meaningful, encouraging conversations, and I'm not even tired by the end of it because it was all just that lovely…

"God, I don't deserve this! It's too good." 

"It's not about deserving it. I love you! You are like clay in my hands—Watch me do even more!"

But when I catch the cold, far-off look of a girl used to pain,
or when I learn about the painful part of a little friend's past and I can see how much it hurts her,
When I have to watch her struggle against old patterns that still hold her captive,
When I can see the battle taking place between despair and hope and I don't know which will win,
When I'm too far away from family and hard things are happening to those I've loved the longest,
When I have physical pain that won't let me take a minute off and I can't even think,
When someone I love decides to "self-destruct" and refuses help,
When the judge makes a tragic ruling that will change my friend's life forever,
When I can't hug my grandpa goodbye because it's already too late,
When I hold a sobbing, heartbroken child, 

"God, did someone do something to deserve this? It hurts." 

"It's not about deserving it. I love you. I am with you! Let me carry you."

In all of these things, I want my heart to be always in awe of God's great, powerful goodness and never-ending love, in all it's justice and holiness, and I want my prayer to be, "mold me as you see fit." 

Use me, use this, use your Church to display your glory. Amen.