some simplicity

I wonder what it would look like to live a life that was entirely held captive by who Jesus is. I wonder what that reality would look like. I know some days I am far from it. And some days he feels so close that it's a wonder I can breathe, it's a wonder it doesn't catch in my chest because of the overwhelming wonder.

I seem to always think I can be content with very little....
But we don't get to choose the situation that we are to be content in. It is given to us, and we are to be content within that situation. We are to trust in that situation. Not another. I really don't have any idea what all this is about sometimes, and my head can get severely jumbled trying to 'figure it all out' , whatever that means (it seems to accomplish very little).
I know I am always re-learning that God is good.
He really is.
And that He is the only thing to be content in.

into the woods

I'm going out to the woods soon.
I'm going to learn silence again. I'm going to untangle myself from all the distractions I am so adept at entangling myself in.
I'm going to the woods to find Jesus, and only him. Not my own version, or anyone else's, just him- who he really is.
I am going so that my eyes will be reawakened to wonder, and I can stand in awe of the one who can speak truth into existence.
I am going so that I might remember, away from the chaos and deceptions of life, why I am really here, and what this life means. I am going to rediscover a story that I am entwined in, that grows around me like the ivy climbing toward the clouds on the trees.

Maybe that's a lot to be going to the woods for.

especially in 3 days.
well.
an adventure. even a small one.

I'm taking quiet steps through the sunny cemetery this morning; deliberate in my coming, deliberate in my thinking- only with no knowledge of what thoughts will come. It is quiet here- as regards human sounds- but the birdsong, the early spring singing- it is clear, it echoes and fills the air.
I pass by the monuments we make for peoples' lives. They surround me, covering the landscape and the hillsides. They say very little about it all, really; a piece of stone etched with a name, two dates, and if you are fortunate, maybe a phrase- some sort of wish or identifying mark. And to the stranger, their entire life is encapsulated in this single piece of stone. I look at the names and dates, I wonder what their stories are, what their lives were made of. And I wonder what kinds of stories we have, what sorts we will leave, and what bits of story will outlast us. I wonder if we will be courageous enough to leave any stories of the type that stay around, I wonder if we live lives worth the telling. I know a story that has outlived the physical reality of someone by about two-thousand years and running. But it wasn't an easy story to live.

Why do we dare give so much respect and reverence...and even care, to people who are no longer here, and yet the ones who still are....?
I can't deny I really like cemetery's. They are like gardens full of windy roads, sculptures, interesting stories (or so my imagination suspects) and very few people. Part of me is at odds with this though. It almost seems like we are trying to resurrect eden for our dead. We make these places filled with peace, stillness and beauty. But all for a body in a casket? Why do we not fill our world with more of this for the living? Maybe it is the ache for what creation was intended to be, maybe the hope that there is something else- after all this, displayed in our choice of landscaping for graves.
But someday we will see the world whole.
It won't be with these bodies, and it won't be filled with meager cemeteries and wishful thinking.
It will be bright and full.
So much so that these words do it an injustice due to inadequacy.

Forget everything but Jesus.

“I just can’t sell the idea of spending that much money to go to India, they don’t understand why you need to go to India”
I can understand this point of view, there are a lot of reasons for it, first and foremost, maybe I wasn’t specific enough, maybe it’s simply because I am not well-enough known there, either way this isn’t meant as a rant against anyone, this is me realizing exactly why I am going to go back to India; with or without the apparent money, whether it’s now, or I have to work for it for months…..

There is a little girl, around four years old now, living on the streets of Pune. I held her for hours one day. She sat in my lap and would turn around occasionally to stare up into my eyes with her deep, dark brown ones, they held secrets I will never know, and even at two years old, probably a profound depth of pain and suffering that I will never understand. Sometimes she would sleep, other times she would sit up and laugh and avidly watch what was going on with everyone else in the room. We ate lunch together, both of us dirtying our hands, while I ate steadily, she ate hungrily. I helped her dip sweet biscuits into a cup of chai without spilling it, and without losing the entire biscuit in the chai (it‘s never as fun to drink soggy biscuits). The entire time she latched onto my right hand with her tiny hand. And when the hours were up, I had to let go of that hand. I had to release her - back to the streets. Her older sister picked her up to carry her out the back door, and she looked up at me with those huge, deep eyes, and tears started their journey all the way down her face; they didn’t stop, she kept crying, and trying to get back down to come back in. I couldn’t stare at those eyes anymore, I had to leave the room. I had to leave so she could go back to the streets, I had to leave before I lost my own sanity.

It may not seem valid to go to another country to ‘just hang out’ with some street kids, or other people who live on the streets, or kids who used to but now are fortunate enough to live in a house with people who love them, take care of them, and make sure they have a chance other than the hopeless cycle of life on the streets.
It may seem much more valid to have an organization, some sort of visible project that lasts for a week and demands the sweat of your brow, like building a house or a church. (I am not saying these things aren’t important, I think they all have their place) But wandering around India, feeding random people out of a backpack, spreading Jesus where you can, giving listening ears, eyes to see and weep over, and a broken heart to offer on someone else’s behalf - a pencil and a camera to carry stories to another people who are also in poverty- poverty of love, how is that obsolete? A burning heart to try and get someone to just look into another pair of eyes affected by our way of life, and to get that someone to really look back- and to see, to understand what it is to feel real empathy for someone else, to feel real pain over someone else’s pain, to feel real repentance over our actions, the ones we weren’t aware could cause such pain, and to feel something other than indifference, something other than a cold heart of stone, these things are worth more to me than all the money in the world. How can you even compare the kingdom of God, how can you put God’s love on the same plane as money? They are two entirely different substances.

And it’s true, I don’t necessarily have to go all the way to India to love my neighbor…. Not in the sense that there are plenty of people right here before me to love (which should by no means be neglected either) But if the only way people can learn to love each other is by knowing a bit of them, by being entirely confronted by them and not turning away, then going somewhere, and in a sense bringing those people back with you, is of infinite value. Beyond that, how is it loving on my part, if I know what I do, if I’ve seen what I have, and do nothing, say nothing?


We can’t just keep ignoring our brothers and sisters, our family, while we sit around in all our comfort here. We don’t know what real poverty is, if we want the comfortable life that globalization and our nation’s setup provides for us, then we are also held responsible for those from whom we steal our comfort. We are responsible for those who provide us with an abundance while they have a lack.

We can’t turn our eyes away anymore.

I can’t turn my eyes away anymore.
I’m going back, and I’m bringing their stories, bits of themselves. Jesus gave his life so we could give ours. Let’s not toy around with that. Let’s not ignore blood that was given on our behalf, just for a little bit of fleeting comfort.
I don’t care if people think I’m crazy for it.
I don’t care if they think it’s dangerous or it really is.
My father is going to help me go. And that’s that.

sometimes peace comes in really unexpected ways, at really unexpected times.