Some days I don't know how to "people."

You've heard the phrase that's becoming ever-popular in young adult circles lately: "I can't adult today."

Well, I couldn't "people" today.

I woke up in a fine mood. I had my coffee. The day was on track for me to want to be in the middle of everything and converse with everyone like I always do.

But I got to church and had trouble with the usual chit-chat. I felt awkward and out of place. Even as I sat through service I felt like I was in the way and that one thing that doesn't belong in "Which one of these things does not belong?" Yeah, it was weird.

We went to the zoo after church because Jack Hanna was in town, and if you know anything about me, you know that I love Jack Hanna because I watched him on Letterman with my folks growing up.

I got held up, but told Bo to go in and find us a seat. I get a text that says he's waiting outside the little arena where Jack's show will take place (He wanted to make sure I was able to get in before they stopped letting people into the arena because, well, that's just my sweet Bo being himself.).

Nonetheless, I think to myself, "Great. Now we're going to have crappy seats and will be blocked in by people on all sides."

We walk into the horseshoe-shaped space, and sure enough, that problem I had with "people-ing" earlier resurfaced.

They were everywhere. People, that is. Seemingly breathing down my neck. Shooting me glances as I slid down the cold metal bleacher that was directly in front of their family of four. "She better not block our view," I could almost hear them internally dialogue-ing with one another.

I felt frustrated. Crowded. Trapped. Hot. Cranky. Overly conscious of the space I was taking up with my broad shoulders and my camera.  

The wait for the show to begin felt like it was d r a g g i n g . 

"Will this thing ever start??" I asked myself. That's when I saw her.

A little girl--probably 7 or 8--wearing an orange bandanna on her head to match her Cleveland Browns jersey, holding her mom's hand as they, her two sisters, and her dad looked for an available seat.

It was pretty crowded by that point, but she led her family up the stairs with the confidence of a 20 something. I glanced in her direction as she got closer. No hair where eyebrows and eyelashes should be. Tired but smiling eyes that harbored a bit of excitement. Perhaps about the animals or maybe to see Jack. Who knows? 

The point is, despite whatever hell she has faced/is facing, having all of the reasons in the world to be bothered by the crowd, the stuffiness, and a seat that wasn't the best, she chose joy. She chose to appreciate and be thankful for the space that she was in at that moment.

I sometimes forget how privileged I am--to only have had to sweat the small stuff in most of my twenty five years of life. Not to have had to deal with greater grief than what I've experienced. Never to have experienced or watch my loved ones experience the pain of serious illness. 

I do not believe everything happens for a reason. But I do believe that God was with me as I noticed that little girl and her family today. Maybe the Divine was on the seat next to me, because there was certainly room, nudging me toward this family: 

"Change your heart. Look outwardly, not inwardly. Use your energy to be present and to pray for those who suffer and whose suffering you know nothing about. Give of yourself out of love. Be moved by this child of mine and know that she is touching many more lives than just yours. Because you, my child, are but one piece of a very big puzzle--of all who have been, all who are, and all who will ever be. Just as my love has always been, is, and will forever be. Don't let stuff that doesn't matter harden your heart. Be selfless. Be kind. Be patient. Be generous. Be compassionate. That is who you were created to be."

It is amazing to me what God does and who God uses to reveal Godself in the world. And the ways in which that revelation calls us to get over ourselves and get into being active in revealing God's Kingdom...

through love. 

That's it. Love first. Love always.

Thank you to that little girl and all she did for me today without even knowing. Please join me in praying for her, for her family, and for all who love her. Thanks for stopping by. 

Dinosaur socks and Mennonites rock


So, I have this friend.
His name is Mark.

We are two pret-ty different humans at surface level.

He loves academics and is easily one of the top five most brilliant people I know.
I'm intelligent, but academia isn't always my gig.

He is an introvert.
I'm an extrovert.

He's a cat person.
I'm a dog person.

He loves running.
I do not.


But beyond these surface-level differences, we share a common interest...

...a love for large reptiles. Dragons and dinosaurs, to be exact.


And even beyond that extremely important similarity, we also share a love for Jesus Christ and feel called to help others understand God's love for them in theological and practical ways.

I've always been drawn to Mark. It's weird. Because, well, I don't always know what to do with the quiet ones.

And the first time I encountered him--on my first day of seminary in Introduction to Ethics--I picked up on that quietness right away. I also quickly realized he had no qualms about making faces at people based on things they did or said. I think that second component may have been what intrigued me about him: Why is he making those faces, and is he being mean or funny by making them? It didn't take long for me to learn that that was just Mark, and there was nothing malicious about it.

As semesters went by and we had more classes together, we got to know one another somewhat better--sometimes by sitting close (never really beside) one another in class and/or sending each other sarcastic messages and stickers in facebook messages while trying to stay awake in those dreaded 2:00 PM classes. But I think it was when we both attended the required cross cultural trip to Cuernavaca, Mexico for our degree that we became what I consider to be real friends.

Late night card games, discussions about relationships, playing question games on dark van rides down a mountain after a full day of learning about and experiencing the culture, celebrating his birthday, playing charades, sitting *next to* each other at meals, witnessing him seemingly travel to another world when he sat down at a piano bench to play one of the last days of our trip...These are the events that built our friendship. No longer was Mark just this man that I looked up to for his brilliance and life experiences and gifts/passions for ministry, but he was someone I loved as my friend. 

We remained close throughout the rest of his seminary career. I "WOOHOO!"'d when he walked across the stage last May, likely much to his chagrin, and though we don't get to see each other very often now, we still keep up in those snarky facebook messages and check in on each other from time to time.

He informed me after service that he wore 
these socks today just for me! :) 
Note to self: Invest in dragon socks for our next get-together.

Today, I got to witness my Marky stand before his congregation at Columbus Mennonite Church (It was my first time attending a Mennonite church, and it was so great on so many levels. I highly recommend visiting this congregation!) and deliver a beautiful sermon full of many of the things I have learned about him throughout the process that has been our friendship. From pulling in his audience with a combination of his charm, humor, and captivating storytelling abilities to making sure the text for the morning was well presented on many levels. He made us laugh (He made me cry.), he helped us learn, and maybe most importantly, he helped us connect the text with our everyday lived experiences and vice versa. In doing so, he helped us understand the ways that God continues to speak and act in our lives even when we don't always recognize or understand it.

As I mentioned earlier, I have always been drawn to Mark. But today, as I sat in the pew and intently listened to him give his sermon, I was not only drawn to Mark, the guy I met on my first day of seminary, but I was drawn to Mark, the effective pastor and preacher, who I am so incredibly proud of and who I am blessed to call my friend. 

It's been a few months since I've been here, in this space.
Likely because life, and people, and processes, and events have all been seemingly happening at breath-taking speeds with which I couldn't keep up.

Continued racial violence and murders.
Continued gun violence.
Continued persecution of people for merely being themselves.
Continued religious debates that do nothing but fuel hateful, Spirit-less fires.
Continued political debates that turn things like running for POTUS into a joke.
Continued news about the worst refugee crisis since WWII.

I still can't--keep up, that is. Not really. So much pain and confusion and feelings of helplessness and anger and desperation from all sides of every event, every newscast, every community, every pulpit.

I often wonder why at certain times the brokenness of the world seems to build upon itself like a snowball rolling down a never-ending hill in mid December, while simultaneously getting bigger and bigger and bigger...

I will admit that the snowball effect has taken its toll on me lately. Not only am I trying to discern ways of authentically living my life that lessen these terrible things, ways that offer life-giving support to real people in real places all over the world, but I'm getting lost in my questions, frustrations, and heartbroken-ness for these same people and same places.

Where is the hope in the midst of these realities that I largely know nothing about aside from listening to firsthand accounts and reading articles that might or might not be depicting credible depictions of these stories?

It's almost as if all of these thoughts in my head and feelings in my heart were (and still sort of are, I guess) causing my body and spirit to short circuit and disconnect from one another.

My body is tired, but it can't rest--too much over-thinking, worrying, being angry about what's happening in the world. Dreams about drowning refugees occur every time I close my eyes.

My spirit is tired, but it can't rest--too much heartbreak, loneliness, suffering happening in the world. I can't wrap my mind around one event before another one happens for which I should be praying and/or grieving with those who grieve.

I'm slightly numb--in some sort of holding pattern waiting for my body and my spirit to realign.

But today, just for a few hours, I felt it. I felt the pieces slowly gravitate toward one another, slowly move back into their rightful places. The snowball slowed, and my body relaxed, coffee cup in hand, for the first time in a long time. And, miraculously, my spirit decided to show up for this momentous occasion as well.

There we were. Somehow, all of me made it to church this morning--not in compartmentalized fractions, but in fluid yet united wholeness. I was thinking and I was feeling, but in ways that made sense and in ways that eliminated the numbness to which I had resorted.

As the sunshine reached through the stained glass, over our heads, and up toward the altar, I leaned into my chair and listened intently to the piano and organ as they harmonized with one another, to the flute as it movingly piped along, and to the soloist as she offered her angelic renditions of Pie Jesu and The Lord's Prayer. Hot tears streamed down my face as I felt the presence of God meet us in those holy moments.

It seems as though beautiful skylines are always
involved on the days in which I encounter God
most vividly.

I listened to God's word for those gathered in the pews this morning, and the tears continued to fall as if signifying the re-connect of my body and spirit was at long last taking place. We learned about knowing the difference between wisdom and knowledge, the importance of mercy over judgment, the brokenness that we all share, and the gift that we have in Holy Communion--where we can admit the ways we are so desperate for God's grace while recognizing the ways that God's grace in the bread and cup gives us the strength and perseverance to be vessels of God's mercy and love in the world. I guess you could say, it re-connects us--to God, to each other, and to ourselves.

In the hours following worship, the mess of the world threatened to undo the re-connecting that took place earlier this morning. And while the mess continues to haunt me, I'm hoping that the ways God spoke this morning--through presence, music, word, and sacrament--stay at the very forefront of my mind...reminding me to re-connect to the Creator and to all those whom the Creator loves, even the mess that is me.

Thanks for stopping by. May you go in peace knowing you are not alone in your brokenness or the brokenness of this world even though it often feels like it. May you be reassured that it is never too late to re-connect.