They give me worth

My therapist this week told me that God’s timing wasn’t a coincidence. While it was about a specific thing/event we’d talked about, I can’t help but have it ring in my ears tonight as I’m reminded: God’s timing is not a coincidence. It’s perfectly planned.

Facebook memories are always a hit/miss, depending on how old they are (to the people  I was friends with in high school: I apologize for treating facebook like a diary.)

Memories in March are my favorite though, because they usually flood my facebook with pictures, posts, and memories from the 4 years  I’ve spent spring break in Cozumel.

Tonight particularly, the facebook memory machine hit me like a ton of bricks.

It led me to the first ever blog post I wrote about Ciudad. Posted 3 years ago. All of those memories coupled with the pictures and stories kept flooding back, while tears flooded my eyes. This year, I can’t seem to think or talk about Cozumel without getting choked up. So when I re-read that first year post? Oh man.

Reading my words from that first year finally helped me find the words to talk about this year. We’ve been back on the mainland for over a week now, and the processing this year has been hard. Words still aren’t coming easily, but I’m ready to try.

It’s crazy what 4 years has done to me. So much has changed. I’m not the same person from that first year.

But Ciudad has stayed the same.

While there have been changes– new directors,  new kids coming in and older kids leaving, new house parents, new houses and buildings and projects  every year since I’ve been there– my thoughts, feelings, and emotions about this place and its people have unwavered.

If anything, they’ve gotten stronger over the past 4 years.

I don’t think I knew that first year just how much Ciudad would be a part of my life. I don’t think I realized that this place had changed me, until I look back at it now– how I interweave stories and memories from the trips into almost every conversation I have. How  I relive the days, the moments, playing the “what were you doing now?” game when I miss it.  How even despite the language barrier, I came to know these kids– and they me. How the pictures would be looked at (and the memories remembered) daily. How I would long for the trip year after year back to my kids. How I would spend time with the team after the trip, missing it together. (I could write a whole post on the team aspect of the trip this year).

 
This year in some ways was one of the most different in the trip itself, and yet I felt like I fell into my usual rhythms the minute my feet hit the ground outside of the airport. I could breathe easy. I knew life in Cozumel and at Ciudad: it was certain, steady, and life-giving. Everything about it made me feel like this is how life is supposed to be.

It’s become home.

It’s where my heart is.

It’s where I’m the most alive.

It’s where I’m most at peace.

I’m a different person when I’m there- a happier, livelier, calmer, bright-eyed version of myself. 

Every spring break leads me back to that place– and to that person. And every year, I come back leaving more of myself there, all the while trying to bring back life there to my life here.

Ciudad and the kids there have become such a huge part of my daily life and the way I see the world. There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not reminded of how these kids change my life.

 I could tell so many stories throughout the years about how God has changed my life and my heart on this trip. Maybe someday I can share them without crying.

Looking back at this year’s trip has been harder for me that trips past. I know it’s partially because of the unknowns of next year (since I won’t be a student anymore), but I also feel like it’s because this year I felt different. I knew the ropes and the ins and outs of the home– and knew the kids decently well. I mostly stuck to the kids I already had a relationship with, instead of trying so hard to try to talk to/get to know everyone. (a hard feat with 40 kids plus 40 teammates vying for kids attention too!). I think when I did that, something shifted in me: by focusing on building the relationships I’d already made, I didn’t have to try so hard. There was already friendship there. There was a layer of love and trust already between us. That made the week so much more fun for me– spending time laughing and playing go fish with Wendy, or taking selfies with Carlos, or heart to hearts with Conny and chasing Cristi around the playground. I already knew them and loved them (and they loved me back), so I felt such at ease. It also feels harder to share those stories, for some reason.

While year after year, my connections with certain kids has changed and/or blossomed, one common theme has stayed the same:

God reveals himself when our eyes are open to see him working. He shows us what we need to see and what we need to hear if we quit trying to find it and just listen and watch.

When we’re paying attention to what He’s called us to, He shows up. And He changes us.

One specific way God revealed himself to me this trip was to remind me of my worth. There have been so many times the past year that I haven’t really felt worth much. Now that I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, nothing feels like it has a purpose– I have no end goal. I’ve felt like life and the hardships and frustrations I’ve dealt with just weren’t worth it– and that I wasn’t worth it. Life wasn’t worth the stress and the hopelessness  I was feeling. It’s a scary thing to feel these things. There have been many days I just wanted to give up.

That all changed when I was at Ciudad.  I knew if I could make it through to Cozumel, back to Ciudad, life would feel as it was supposed to. There more than anywhere else do I feel like I have value. I have a purpose again. I was worth something to these kids, not because I had my life figured out or because I was special. They found worth and value in me because of me. Because I was there, just being myself. Despite the language and cultural barriers, they spoke volumes of worth into my life– just for me being there. I was enough to them when I wasn’t enough to myself.

And that thought– that I was worth something to them– has changed my life.

These kids have dealt with more hardships than I’ll ever deal with. They come with their own baggage. Yet they see me, not knowing of my hardships and baggage I carry, and love me in spite of it. Not because I did something special or did anything really– they love me and accept me for me.  I can hardly believe that.

—

My first year, I got close to a little girl named Conny. She’s not-so little anymore (she turned 12 while we were there!), and has been one of those kids that has been a big part of my story every year I’ve gone on the trip. This year was no different. On the Sunday we were there, I sat with her and my Wendy girl  while at church. Wendy eventually had to leave to help with the children’s class, so it was just me and Conny. She quickly moved over and took residence by my side, head on my shoulder. During one part of the sermon, I was attempting to keep up with the scriptures when I just gave up and held my bible and listened (not knowing what on earth the pastor was saying). Conny looked at and pointed at my bible, as if to ask if she could look.  I nodded and watched her thumb through it, noticing my drawings and journal entries. I had a pink highlighter in my hand; she motioned at it and at a blank page in my bible, asking if she could write/draw. I smiled and nodded yes, and the girl went to town. I silently giggled watching her take so much joy from something so simple. She drew on a few pages, but eventually I looked over to find her writing multiple words in spanish on a page:

Besides it saying “I love Jordan,” I could only make out some of the words, but had my friend Adriana translate the rest for me.

Beautiful. Loving. Understood (not sure if that’s what she meant by conprendida, I couldn’t figure it out).  Tender. Love. A few more I can’t remember off the top of my head.

Words I don’t really see in myself.

Yet this girl, who I’ve spent a week with for 4 years (literally spent 4 weeks of my life with total), sees me as these things. And she believes it. No strings attached.

God used Conny to reveal the words and reminders I needed the most.

God speaks through these kids every year, but this year, He spoke volumes into the dryest part of my soul: He reminded me that I had worth, because of who I am. Not for what I did or said. But simply because of who I am. It doesn’t matter that I don’t see it in myself– He gave me people like Conny to see it for me.

My friend, Lydia, said after my first trip in 2013 that God’s fingerprints were all over Ciudad. Ever since then, I’ve believed that, and never felt God’s touch quite as much anywhere else but in Cozumel.  It’s not that He isn’t moving anywhere else; it’s just that for me, I find him there the most. Because it’s there that I feel like I’m known and loved for just being me. I don’t have to put on a show or a happy face. I come, baggage and all, and these kids don’t care– they just want to love us like we love them. I see His fingerprints here because it is where I’m most reminded of who I am: loved, valued, worthy. I’m reminded that I have purpose here, whether that looks like teaching ESL or playing go fish and painting nails; whether that’s letting kids play with my sunglasses or sitting on the sidelines to comfort someone. I have a purpose at Ciudad, and God’s fingerprints lead me to that purpose year after year.

 My first year blog ended with this line: I don’t think I can go back to life without Ciudad; and I know, with all my heart, that I really don’t ever want to.

4 years later, and I know for sure:  I can never go back to life without Ciudad. And the love these kids give me, I know for sure I never want to. 

Thank you God, for your fingerprints on this place: they give me purpose and worth more than anything else this world has to offer me.

left to right: me and Conny, 2013; me and Conny, 2016 (with an Elsy photobomb)

good friday, easter, and the in-between

I’m stuck. Stuck is obviously not a place you or I want to be, but I can’t help but think about how appropriate timing my realization of my stuck-ness is.

I’m at a cross between the darkness and the waiting for the light to reappear.

I’m at this in-between of not wanting to do anything but sleep (and sleep well, pretty please?!), and wanting to do all of the things. At once. It’s overwhelming how much my desire wanes, yet my schedule keeps piling up.

I’m at a place where I feel my depression slowly creeping back in, and desperately fighting the numbness and darkness to stay out. I want to feel things, but not the sad things. And yet, those are the things I need to feel the most.

I’m lost about figuring out what I’m doing next post-grad yet desperately ready for graduation to hurry up and get here. I still have no clue about the future yet I’m sick of being in the present.

This in-between place I’m in is real. And right now, it kind of sucks.

I feel like all of these things fall into this juxtaposition of Good Friday and Holy Saturday– the dark, sad, excruciating lostlessness of Good Friday, and the longing, quiet, hard Saturday that follows. There’s a lot of crossroads, a lot of in-betweens that we have to go through to get from the crucifixion to the resurrection.

Truthfully I never thought about Saturday as much up until the past few years. I always go straight from the sadness of Good Friday to the celebration of the Resurrection. Don’t want to stay in the sadness for too long- cause Sunday’s coming, right?

It absolutely is- don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t happen instantly.

Just like my depression and anxiety aren’t going to get better overnight.

Or like I’m not going to figure out my life plans suddenly just because I want to.

Or that I’m not going to get to graduation any faster by not focusing on the work I have to get through before.

I know that yesterday and tomorrow have a lot of weight and importance. But today, the holy Saturday in between, does too.

Saturday is there to remind us of the weight of the in-between. What it means to wait– and sit in the waiting– for what happens next. It’s a day of feeling the sadness and the absence from yesterday, and anticipating tomorrow and the celebration of the resurrection.

While we can’t have a resurrection without a death, we can’t have the resurrection on our time table, either.

We have to wait. We have to be reminded of the absence– of why we need the resurrection.

We need the in-between to lead us to the celebration.

I’m not a very patient person, so this waiting in the in-between stage of my life is hard. I can’t stand it, truthfully. I thought I’d have it all together by now. I want to know more. I want to feel more (and better). I don’t want to be swallowed up by numbness and no desire to do anything. And yet, this is where I am right now.

So I wait.

Just as we waited to find the tomb empty, we wait on God’s next moves: painstakingly aware of the absence, impatient about the details, and yet, totally in awe and faith that He will move– both in resurrection and in life.

I have faith that just as He rose, He will rise in my life. He’ll deliver me from this season. He’ll provide answers and direction where it feels direction-less right now. I know this for sure– He hasn’t let me down thus far.

I just have to wait.

—

On our last day in Cozumel, I sat outside on the porch of our rental house, taking it all in. Thinking about the kids and saying goodbye the night before and letting myself feel the sadness and weight of it all.  Soon I started to cry, knowing our journey back to Nashville was impending in a few short hours. In between my tears, I managed a prayer: God, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go back, to leave this place. But I trust you. I trust you. I trust you.

That prayer got me through. it’s still getting me through, a week after returning to reality. I’m in this in-between and I’m not ready for what’s ahead, though I’m ready to leave what I have now. But I trust Him. I trust Him. I trust Him. I’m hoping the more I say it, the more I’ll believe it.

I’m clinging to the words of Jesus in one of my favorite verses (and one of my favorite stories):

photo creds: kaitlyn bouchillon

 Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” (NIV). 

As much as I hate waiting for this season to end, for me to feel better, and for what’s next to be somewhat figured out, I’m reminded by this day of waiting that I’ll learn and understand. It may not be when I want it, but the waiting, the in-between, this season is important too.

I will understand someday. But until that day, I wait in the in-between, on this Holy Saturday– quietly, anxiously anticipating the stone rolling from the tomb. 

five minute friday {alive}

Happy Five Minute Friday! I’m baaaack after a few weeks’ hiatus due to mission tripping.

This week’s word is highly appropriate, and not just because it’s Easter-themed:

This is probably going to be longer than 5, but I’m going to try.

This was my 4th trip to Cozumel, Mexico on a mission trip with my school. We go spend time at a children’s home on the island– it’s primarily a relational trip, doing ESL/VBS classes in the day and having fun activities with the kids at night. I sponsor one of the kids at the home (Wendy-pictured below), so this place and the kids there mean a lot to me.

This trip has taken me a bit longer to process than in trips’ past, (and I’ll probably write more in-depth about it this weekend), but there’s one thing as I’m reading my journals and thinking about the trip that just keeps repeating in my head:

I come alive when I’m in Mexico. 

While I know a good portion of it happens to do with the team I’m with (my team this year was amazing), and the fact that I’ve built relationships with the kids at the home over the past four years, I am just a different person when I step into Mexico.

I’m happier. I feel more like myself. I feel like I’m in my element (which is funny since I do not speak a lick of spanish other than the words I’ve picked up over the past few years).

It’s like I can finally exhale. A part of my soul just comes to life when the plane steps down. 

A part of me that doesn’t come alive at home just awakens when I’m there.

I’m a better, more alive version of myself when I’m there. It’s home– and where my heart truly belongs.

And I long to be back there– and in that state of mind– oh so badly.

END.

I actually did make it in 5 minutes– I have a lot more I could say, but I’m already crying just at this much so I’ll hold off. And I’ll save it for a more trip-extensive post– for a post with some pictures from the trip, go here!

he’s sweet, i know.

He’s sweet, I know.

He’s sweet, I know.

storm clouds may rise,    

And strong winds may blow.

(Well) I’ll tell the world,

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll tell it wherever I go. 

I’ll tell them that I have found a Savior, 

 

And He’s sweet I know. 

 

Sometimes, words can’t do your thoughts justice. Pictures and hymns can, though.

Thankful for this place, the kids and adults who live there, this team-turned-family– for they all showed me my sweet Savior this week. Whenever I was down and out, especially as we were preparing to leave, this song would pop in my head (thanks Adri for introducing it to us). It became a theme song of sorts: everywhere I turned, reminders that I had a Savior, and a sweet one at that, kept popping through in the smallest, sweetest ways. I still don’t have the words quite yet to explain this week, but I am immensely thankful for it.

 

(pictures either credit to Julie Traina or my iphone; lyrics to “He’s Sweet I Know” by Janie Hill)

a beautiful reaction.

If you know me well, you know Bob Goff is one of my favorite people. I’ve written a few posts about his book Love Does (which I read my sophomore year of college), and basically half of my instagram feed is quotes of his. (#sorrynotsorry) He just radiates Jesus’ love and joy to everyone he meets, and his words have a way of grasping you in the most beautiful of ways.

He came to Lipscomb’s campus this week for a few different speaking events– a mentorship dinner and Q&A with our SGA Monday night, and chapel Tuesday morning. I may or may not have attended all 3 events. Ahem. I kindof got lucky– originally they didn’t have enough room at the mentoring dinner (I’m a part of our mentorship program but didn’t RSVP till late), but after I sent my email some people cancelled. Holler!

I loved getting to hear him speak in such an intimate setting. Last time he spoke (my sophomore year), it was PACKED– and the same goes for the Q&A event and chapel. So, it was fun to be in a smaller space hearing him talk right in front of me (literally–I was sitting at a table beside the stage). He centered in on mentorship and what that looked like– talking about what loving people is, mostly, and being present. He told funny stories and had cute ancedotes for everything. However, he said one thing that caught my attention.

He was talking about how sometimes we get hung up on our baggage and ourselves. How we reflect our families, our parents, our pasts, our stories.

He then said we needed to be a beautiful reaction to what’s happened to us. Be a beautiful reaction to our story, our past.

He gave some personal examples about his upbringing and family– talking about the ways he positively reacted to not-so positive things in his story. He didn’t reflect his upbringing, or the negative impact parts of it had; he reacted to it by being better than it.
Truly, I’d never thought of this way. We’re a reflection of how we’re raised, who we’re surrounded by, right? But for me in my life, I always focused on the negative impact my past has on me.

When I think of how my story has impacted me, I always think about how untrusting I am. How I hate conflict and fighting (even if conflict is necessary) because of all the yelling and fighting  I heard growing up. How I’m scared to commit to relationships, to be vulnerable and honest with people (afraid they’ll run when they see how messed up I am). How I always try to talk over people after going unheard for so long. How I’m a perfectionist (in recovery) and try to earn love and attention because I’ve always fell a bit short. How I’m always scared of something bad happening and am anxious about the future because I never knew what was going to happen. How I closed off my heart to emotions because I was a crybaby, and needed to toughen up (as I was told). How I’ve never liked the way I looked, and still struggle with who I see in the mirror.

Those are all the negative things– the struggles I deal with because of what’s happened to me in my lifetime. My insecurities and flaws from my past.  I dwell on them a lot– and thanks to therapy, I work through them. Or try to. These are how I reflect what’s happened to me.

I’ve never tried to react to them other than just succumbing to the fact that they’re a part of me.

So I thought about it: how can I be a beautiful reaction to what has happened to me? 

Because I didn’t get the physical affection I wanted/needed as a kid, I am quick to hug/love on people. (And now I’m quicker to let other people do the same for me).

Because I dislike conflict and arguing/fighting, I’ve learned how to mediate problems and help come up with solutions.

Because of my struggle with emotions, I’ve learned how to empathize well with others. And I’ve learned how important emotions and showing them truly are.

Because of my struggle with being heard and paid attention to, I listen to people.

I take an interest in what my friends do or enjoy, not because I enjoy them but because they do.

I quit striving for perfection and take grace instead. (most days)

I take time to let people get to know me, but I let them into my heart more and more each day.

I believe I am a child of God and that makes me beautiful, even if I don’t see it in the mirror.

I’m still working on what other beautiful reactions I’ve got from what’s happened to me. Some are easier to see than others, but in time I know I’ll figure ’em out.

I think Bob’s point was that we dwell so much on the bad parts and how they affected us, but good things can come from the bad. We were made from dirt and dust, after all.

I wouldn’t have these things– these skills, these abilities, these attributes– if I hadn’t lived through the struggle and the bad.  I wouldn’t have the same story or the same reactions if I hadn’t been through what I’ve been through.

Even if my story was hard in some places, it’s been worth it when I see what good has been done in me through it.

I struggle so much with the effects of my life: divorce, family issues, alcohol abuse in the family. Mental health struggles (both mine and others). I look at my life and I see how much mess there is, and all the bad attributes I deal with because of the mess. It’s not fun most days— the ways my story has affected me negatively show up every day, and it’s a mess.

But there’s beauty in the mess. There’s a beloved daughter in the mess. And there’s something beautiful about that– not because of what has happened, but because of who I’ve become and what I’ve done with the mess.  There’s not a lot of beauty about the things that have happened. But God makes beauty from ashes, and He makes beauty from my story. 

I just have to look and see.

My life is more than a reflection of my family and what’s happened to me: it is a reaction to the mess I’ve lived. A beautiful reaction.

he gets it.

have you ever had something that you’ve heard or read numerous times, but after a specific reading/listen, something just clicks and washes over you? Be it a song, a scripture, a quote… the circumstances or the way you hear it suddenly changes your understanding of whatever it may be.

Tonight I was reading my launch team copy of Annie F. Downs’ new book Looking for Lovely. After conversating with some launch team friends over coffee this afternoon, I really wanted to dive into the book after taking a few days off to get school stuff dealt with. (Also, truthfully, I didn’t want to finish my God-awful annotated bibliography… still don’t, hence this post). She has a chapter titled “Gardens” that depicts her travels to the  Garden of Gesthemane on her visit to Israel last year. She writes about how she was leaning on a wall look out at the garden when she started reading Matthew 26, the story of Jesus praying at that very garden. While her story and the entire chapter are compelling, the scripture (that I’d read/heard many times before) stopped me in my tracks:

³⁶ Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” ³⁷ He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. ³⁸ Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.” (NIV)

36-38Then Jesus went with them to a garden called Gethsemane and told his disciples, “Stay here while I go over there and pray.” Taking along Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he plunged into an agonizing sorrow. Then he said, “This sorrow is crushing my life out. Stay here and keep vigil with me.” (MSG)

My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow. To the point of death.

When I read this verse– this line particularly–I let out a gasp. Chills were up and down my arms.

If I hadn’t been in Starbucks, I would have fell to my knees.

In that moment, something I’d heard time and time again finally became real to me.

He gets it. 

He understands me. He knows how I feel when the dark night of the soul has come and taken over my life.

He knows how I felt when I contemplated walking into my busy street and standing in front of a car last year. Or when I researched pill combinations I could take to kill myself in my sleep.

How my heart and my soul were just so overwhelmed that I didn’t feel like living anymore. How I felt when I thought the world would be better off without me.

He knows what that’s like because he had those emotions too. And while his was more circumstantial  and obviously very different reasons (since he was about to be betrayed and eventually crucified in this scene), he knows my innermost and complicated thoughts and feelings  of depression that  I deal with every. single. day.

That sorrow, as so aptly put in the message version, crushes my life. There are good days– great days, actually. But then there are low days. Lows so low you don’t know if you’re going to rise above them. Lows are when you are so overwhelmed with sadness or numbness or anxiety or all of the above that you aren’t quite sure how to function anymore– all you feel is a fog. A wave of emotion or frazzled-ness you just can’t shake. And you just don’t know if tomorrow is worth the sorrow of today.

Jesus felt that sorrow– that deep, soul-crushing, agonizing sorrow. He felt it. He lived through it. He chose to suffer through those feelings– that mental anguish– for me.

He didn’t just suffer physically on the cross for me. The mental and emotional anguish he suffered before (and during, let’s be real here) the Cross was just as important. And just as necessary for me, a person struggling with mental illness, to see written.

He decided I was worth the pain– all of it. I would never choose to suffer from depression or GAD for someone. Many times I’ve asked why this was my battle or why this was written into my story– how could someone choose to go through the hell that is the dark anguish of sorrow for me? I am so unworthy. And yet He did it. He suffered, both mentally, emotionally, and physically, for me… and now I sit here in the same sorrowful suffering. And I can’t help but be thankful that if I have to have this as part of my story, at least  I have a savior who stepped down into this mess and feels it with me. A savior that knows what I’m going through because he chose to feel it, too.

We’ve heard time and time again how Jesus was fully God and fully human. He felt like we felt, he understood and handles our emotions because he felt our emotions. I don’t think I ever fully believed that until now. Now I look at this story and I see me and this fully man, fully God savior as someone who knows me and what I’m going through.

He gets every part of me, even the darkness that I am scared to feel, or to let others see. He sees my sorrow and my sad. he sees when it’s crushing me under the weight of the world. And he’s been there.

He gets me because he gets it. 

And to me, someone who so often feels alone in this mess that is mental hell…I cling to that thought now more than ever.

Five minute Friday {news}

FMF on a Friday, y’all. Who would’ve thunk?!? I was incapacitated basically from 7am to 11pm last night. It was lonnnng.  But good. And ended with a 3 hour musical event, so I can’t say it wasn’t a fun day.

 

Today’s word:

 

It took me a while to get an idea, but this morning something just clicked. Love when that happens.

 

GO:

I have good news for you, brokenhearted one: God is here in the wandering.

 

Those are some words from Sarah Bessey’s latest book Out of Sorts (I’ve written a lot about it, because well, it impacted me greatly). This is one of the lines that grabbed me the most: God is in the wandering.

Where can I go to get away from your spirit? You hem me in on all sides.

No matter how far I run, He’s waiting with arms wide open.

He’s waiting on me to come home. Knowing for sure that even when I wander, I will always fall back to him.

It’s not been a season of wandering for me, per se, but it’s been  a season of frustration and questioning. What’s next? Am I going to find a job? Why did this happen? Why was I born into this family? 

I’ve been dealing with a lot of family drama and future stressing the past couple weeks. I talk through it with my counselor, who reminds me that it feels awful to feel helpless (about the family stuff). And she’s right. I feel out of control and wandering because there’s nothing I can do to fix it. And I hate it. We’ve also talked about my need/desire to know my future plans as a connection to needing the security my family never provided… that’s another story for another post. Yay therapy for making my life make sense!

But the good news: God is here too. He’s in the frustration and questions and anger and the drama. He’s in the wandering away and the crawling back, with his arms wide open asking why can’t you see? I’ll never leave. 

God is in the wandering and the everything I am– now that is good news.