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!