Faith

Of late, I have had the pleasure of reading a few very challenging and thought provoking books. In particular, I have been reading about August Hermann Franke, founder of the orphan house in Halle, Germany and forerunner to George Mueller. Franke founded an orphan house that has provided food and education for literally tens of thousands of students (if not more) over the past three hundred and some odd years on less than five dollars. And of course God. If he has taught me one thing, it is that the biographies of those completely sold out to God are far from boring.

Franke was a university professor and pastor who was deeply sold out to God. As a child, he requested of his mother a private study where he could read the Scriptures and pray. Later, he went to the University and studied religion. It was in the course of his studies that he came to what he called his true conversion - the beginning of his radical devotion to and faith in God. He was regularly attacked by members of the German church for being a fanatic, but it was he who brought about revival in Germany. He preached straight from the Bible, which was somewhat rare in that day (circa 1670). When he was asked to preach in Halle and be a professor at the University, he began to notice the lack of religious instruction innate in the poor, particularly the children. Being a man devoted to the work of God, this troubled him greatly and prompted him to begin collecting donations to change this. From here, it snowballed. Franke's life is one of radical dependence on God and watching God's provision come at just the right time and amount. There were times when he had upwards of a hundred orphans to care for, plus a school and other outbuildings, and not a cent to his name. But God always came through and Franke never lost his faith. He was a man of prayer and thanksgiving, a man who sought his own betterment for the sake of bring glory to the Father. Even when he was wrongly accused or reproved, he always responded with a grace that should be characteristic of every Christian.

The life of Franke has left me pondering my own. Do I have faith like that? Do I truly believe in the God of divinely orchestrated circumstances and just-in-the-nick-of-time provision? Is my faith what drives me or is it a safety net? Oh, how I long to be a woman patterned after the life of Christ. I long to have such a bold testimony to my Redeemer as Franke's life evinced. I long to live radically for Christ, to have such a strong faith in my heavenly Father. I want to believe with every fiber of my being. And I think that I do. But I also think its a growing process, and a process that cannot be truly evaluated until the time that the product is crucial. In the meantime, I pray that I can be such a witness to Christ.

Its amazing that we humans long to believe in something so deeply, to have faith in relationships or the goodness of humanity or even in themselves or security. And to believe in those things to some extent isn't necessarily a bad thing, but they should never be the end all be all of a person's faith. Because they ultimately will disappoint; relationships end, people commit heinous acts that testify to the falleness of our condition, security vanishes, and people disappoint themselves. But I believe in a God who is bigger than all my failings or the failings of this world, a God who redeemed me from my brokenness and is continually restoring me to holiness. And I rejoice in that, though not as often as I should.

But often believing in God is the most daring and courageous thing that is available. It can be a crutch, yes, but if you truly believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He is more than just a shoulder to cry on or some sort of divine homeboy, you know that the life that He calls us to live is far from easy. It is far from a walk in the park. In Luke, He tells his disciples that those who are persecuted, hungry, poor, and mourn are the ones who are truly blessed because of the reward they may expect in the life to come. He continues this dialogue by proclaiming that the rich, the well fed, the ones who laugh and are esteemed have received their reward in full. Honestly, that is a challenging passage. Is God calling His people to put themselves in the way of poverty and famine simply for the promise of a castle in heaven? I don't think so. But somehow I think such things are woven into the Christian life. I think we find ourselves constantly bombarded by people who are in those conditions or living dangerously close to them. I think we ourselves must be willing to be in those circumstances if they should befall them. I think that we must always chose Christ over laughter, riches, or even a piece of bread. I don't have it all figured out yet. I'm wrestling with extrapolating this from the American Christianity we have so blindly adopted and mixed with the Gospel.

But I do want a deep faith, a faith so strong that the foundations of it can move mountains and make the devil shudder and enable joy and contentment in every circumstance.

If you are interested in Franke's work, here is the present day website of the school he began. How amazing it is that this project, started with $3.50, is still alive and well today, educating thousands??

http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=de&u=http://www.francke-halle.de/&ei=YL1CTuT_MOStsALA09XCCQ&sa=X&oi=translate&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CDoQ7gEwAA&prev=/search%3Fq%3DFranckesche%2BStiftungen%2Bzu%2BHalle%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DG%26tbo%3D1%26tbm%3Dbks

What I Love About Camp

Another great summer at West Central has come to its conclusion, a full week and a half earlier this year than last. The last few days have been filled with a thorough cleaning of the dorms and time well spent with Jessica and Duonna. The kitchen was filled with milk, delicious smells, more milk, and laughter. There were eight gallons of milk in the fridge Friday night. Duonna took one home and Jessica and I left just under two this morning. I would be content to never look at milk again.

Aside from recent dairy related nausea, it has been an incredible six weeks. I started this summer thinking that it would be my last at WCCSC. Now I am not so sure that next summer will not find me watching the pool at West Central. I love camp. And thinking that I may not return really cemented that fact. I love to watch the campers play in the pool (they are so goofy), I love to listen to their absurd conversations while they swim, I love to put food on their plates and greet them with a smile as they struggle to wake up enough to ask for more bacon. I love the kids. I love getting to know the faculty and finding myself looking forward to seeing them again. I love that Tom adopted Jess and I this year - a fact that he revealed of his own volition. I love that Duonna promised me today before we left that I could use her daughter's wedding decorations "when my time comes." I love that I have history at that camp and that I know the standard of Godliness (and cleanliness) to expect. I love watching the campers wrestle with the things they are learning and come to love Jesus more.

I love that an eleven year old camper begged me almost daily for french silk pie because he knew that I was a pushover, and had I had any leftover, it would've been his. I even love that the faculty teased me about the two popsicles and piece of pie I did give him to the point of getting him to ask me out on a date ("lifeguard, if you guess what I have in my hands I'll take you out on a date tonight....close enough! pick you up at 7, we're riding bikes!). I love to get in the water during pool time and splash the kids and to hear them chant "Lifeguard, lifeguard, lifeguard" as I go down the slide during their five minute break. I even thought it was mildly amusing when a mischievous high schooler asked me if I'd ever seen the Sandlot, and proceeded to attempt to act out the scene which he was referencing (fortunately the pool is only five feet deep and short of diving in headfirst, there was no way that could happen).

I love running on the gravel roads surrounding the camp and making mid-week Starbucks runs for appreciative faculty (and staff) members. I love to sit outside and listen to the campers sing late at night around the campfire, proclaiming their love for Jesus under bright stars and often a clear moon. I love that being at camp is a retreat for me. I love to sit and read and reflect and wrestle with the things that challenge me most. I love long talks with the nurse and celebrating crazy holidays and cooking together (which inevitably ends with her realizing just how stupid I truly am).

I feel so at home at camp. I love to do crazy things to make Tom shake his head while a smile creeps across his face. I love to say crazy things to which Duonna will invariably reply "You should. I want you to. I know you don't have morals." I love to sit with Jessica and read ridiculous books about Mennonites wearing little black dresses.

The time I spend at camp is without a doubt exhausting. There is simply no question. Yet somehow in the rigid routine and the mornings which come too early there is joy and peace. Even in the chaotic and dramatic events that plagued the kitchen for a few weeks, I wouldn't have traded the summer for anything. Camp is where I relax. Camp is what makes the rest of the year worth it. It is probably the busiest vacation in existence, but I find myself debating the possibility of saying goodbye to it as I pursue other opportunities. I know that Tom and Duonna will be proud of me no matter what and that God will provide both for the camp and for my future, but it is hard to look objectively at the idea of saying goodbye to West Central this close to being there constantly. The next few months will be filled with prayer and waiting on God, but I know that my heart belongs to West Central. And it always will, no matter where I am. Perhaps that is what makes the decision so difficult.

Even with such a difficult decision glaring back at me, I can look back on an untarnished summer of crazy tan lines and constant Starbucks, dropped calls and spotty cell phone service, knowing Jesus more and living in wonderful community. Oh, how I love camp.

Our last night of Duonna lovin'

Home is Whenever I'm with You

Sarah's flight is probably preparing to take off as I write this.

As you may have guessed by the cheesy title, this post will take a turn for the sentimental. It may even become downright sappy. Don't say I didn't warn you. I've spent the past week with my best friend, a girl I've known since before I can remember. In our earlier years, our days were filled with office playdates (her mom worked at the church with my dad) and Thursday afternoon outings (our parents got so tired of our constant begging that they finally established a set day for Sarah to come over or for me to go to Sarah's; while that helped, I still remember asking my dad if Sarah could come over nearly everyday). We'd drink half of our Dunkin' Donuts chocolate milk (to the chagrin of my mother) and eat our donuts as we chatted away. Between the two of us, there was never a quiet moment. Ever. We'd run wild through the church building as our parents worked, getting into everything and having grand adventures. There is no one that I remember having so much fun with, except perhaps Tina (since we lived together).

Then one day, a car carried her away to Remsen, NY - a place about which I had never heard. Though we promised faithful correspondence, our barely passable writing skills never quite lived up. We were, after all, only in first grade. The summer after she moved (the summer after second grade), my parents agreed to detour to her farm on our traditional vacation to Kansas. I remember feeling something beyond excited. Despite our failed attempt to keep in touch, I had entered a story about her in my school writing contest. I hardly remember it now, though she swears its somewhere (I gave it to her on that trip). I wrote, illustrated, and published (sewed the binding on) this little story for which I was recognized in front of the entire elementary school I attended (it won 'Best Best Friends Story' - I was a good writer even then). We spent an afternoon together, but had to move on far too quickly. I remember flashes of that day, mostly memories jogged by a few photos we have.

After third grade, my family moved to Missouri. I was devastated to learn that, instead of visiting Sarah, we'd be spending a few days in New York City. Few girls are as disappointed as I at spending time in the Big Apple.

From there, we kept in touch spottily. A few letters here and there, an occasional phone call. Around seventh grade we became very faithful about our Saturday afternoon conversations. That was before texting and before everyone had internet. I'd count the minutes to when I knew she'd be available. We'd talk for an hour or so - until we got kicked off. Even in middle school - even now - there's always something to talk about.

The summer after eighth grade was the first time we saw each other face to face. She flew to Kansas City for a week. We were so excited. It was a very fun week but we didn't account for how much adjusting to each other we'd have to do. As a farm girl, she found it physically impossible to sleep past eight. As a city girl, I found it physically impossible to wake up before eight. She was (and still is) very extroverted. I am very introverted. Despite our differences, the week was practically unforgettable.

The next summer I flew to New York. I am not a farm girl - I learned that real quickly. But I got up before seven to milk cows - until I got horribly sick. The last few days I was there I caught some terrible virus that knocked me out for a while. But I did get out of chores.

The following summer, Sarah returned to Missouri. I could drive now, and we relished the thought of the keys and the open road.

Next year I found myself back on the farm, faithfully (and healthily) doing chores. We went to Water Safari that year, a water park that we drove through the Adirondacks (the mountain range she lives so close to) to find. We also visited her grandparents in Massachusetts and went to a family reunion in Connecticut. It was so much fun! I took pictures with "my" cows - the cow Sarah named after me and its babies - whom I got to name (Penelope and Sherlock, if you're wondering).

The next summer, we had graduated high school and Sarah flew to Missouri to celebrate. We had professional pictures done by a friend of mine, we drove to Kansas and stayed at my grandparents' for a few days (she met the whole fam), we drove to Joplin and I showed her my school and Precious Moments - it was a wonderful trip.

The next summer neither of us had time to travel - or money. Which brings us to this year. After two years apart, it was wonderful to be reunited. Honestly, it was a chill trip. We did some shopping, we did some henna, we went to Joplin and spent a morning volunteering. She got to meet some of my friends, we rode bikes and took walks and laid out, watched movies, cooked delicious food, and spend lots of time talking. All in all the trip was a smashing success.

The thing that I treasure most about Sarah is that I can tell her when I need space. We are nearly opposite in everything which makes us an odd pair to be so close. We've both said that if we hadn't grown up together, we would not be friends with each other. I'm way too type A, organized, and driven and she is way too relationally driven and extroverted. After a week together, we tend to get a little rough around the edges.

Perhaps that is why I always feel surprised at the profound sense of loss I feel as we arrive at the airport, check in, and one of us goes into security while the other watches - knowing that the amount of time between our next reunion is never set in stone. As I walked away from the gate this evening, I was moved nearly to tears as I reflected on our friendship. Sarah and I don't always see eye to eye. She drives me crazy sometimes. But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love her more dearly than I could ever think possible. I treasure her so deeply that I know that our friendship could never really end. I don't know why God put us together, but He did and for that I am grateful. Sitting beside her, I almost lose track of where she ends and I begin. There are very few people who have an unlimited license to hug me but she is one of them.

Saying all of this, it dawns on me that it is almost like a romance or like being in love. While I can assure all of you that it is entirely platonic (we are both too boy crazy for our own good), she is one of the few people in the entire world that I am not sure that I could love a boy more than. I trust her with everything. Literally. I wish that I could be there when things are going badly, but I am relegated to being the friend on the phone. I wish we could celebrate the little victories, but I can only send my congratulations via technology. Still, I know that we have something special. We've been friends for twenty years - a bond not easily shaken. There may come a day where the chaotic push and pull of life forces us to fall out of touch but I have a strong conviction deep within me that even in that circumstance we won't stop loving each other, we won't stop thinking of each other, and we'll make it work. Because we always have. We are pros at the long-distance thing.

A few letters I dug up:



The summer after we graduated:



















































The summer of '08 (the last of the cow days):

Urgency

Repent for the kingdom of heaven is near.
-Matthew 4:17

Urgency is more or less the buzzword of our generation. Vocalized or implied, this three syllable word seems to motivate nearly everything we have or do. "Now! Now! Now!" chants the class of twenty-somethings taking their place in society. "Give me the nicest, newest toy now!" "Give me the best job now!" Urgency is an undeniable theme by which we are governed.

Yet how often am I urgent when I preach the Gospel? How oten do I speak such a simple message of truth? How often will I leave my daily tasks - my livlihood, my social agenda, my all - for Jesus?

Far too rarely, I fear. I so admire the twelve for their immediate reaction to the Christ Incarnate. They knew less than I, yet were far more willing to respond to the call of discipleship. After the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, they earnestly proclaimed the kingdom. I wish that I would step up with the same boldness for Jesus - to proclaim the Gospel instead of sneaking it into some care package of social justice and missionary support. I wish that I was less often a cheapener of grace and more often a proclaimer of the true, costly grace that I have received.

But in a society turned off by the explicit statement of any one religion, how can one do that? Paul gives us some help in Acts 17, but I still feel more or less lost. Is it a lack of courage that stills my tongue or is the Holy Spirit preventing a fumble? For now I am still wrestling with that discernment.

But the kingdom is near and millions have not heard.

Things I'm Learning:

Discipleship and the Individual.


That's the title of the chapter I just finished in Dietrich Bonhoeffer's classic book "The Cost of Discipleship." Bonhoeffer makes many excellent points regarding discipleship in the chapters preceding this one, yet it is this one that has gripped my heart in a strange way.

As I sit on a greyhound rolling through southern Kansas, I feel alone. I don't mind it, but there is something about traveling alone which seems to render the individual more individual. There is an independence, an alertness, that is of natural consequence to the journey. Perhaps that is why I enjoy traveling alone - flying solo, if you will. This chapter reminds me of that feeling, in some ways.

See, Bonhoeffer examines the text in Luke 14 that sats that if a man wants to follow Jesus, he must hate his father, mother, sister, brother, wife, etc. It is a strange passage to the naked eye. Pulled out of the surrounding verses, it paints Jesus in a very different light. Of course, any extended study of the passage reveals that Jesus is employing hyperbole, but that it is vital for Christ followers to have Christ as their priority, the most important relationship in their lives. I very muched like Bonhoeffer's elaboration. He talks about how this call, this grace of Christ which beckons men and women to lay down their lives and pick up their crosses, it individualizes. Christ is not calling my parents or my brother and sisters, He is calling me. And that's an important thing to distinguish. When I picture Jesus pointing at a group of people which includes me, I feel the responsiblity that I am called to slacken. When just I stand before the throne of God to be handed a task, there is much more seriousness and commitment required.

That is what the call of Christ does. It peels through the layers of protective men and women who perhaps have already answered their call, straight to the center where I stand. Christ beckons me and leaves me with the choice to follow or disobey, boldly contradicting his teachings and aligning myself with his enemies. There is no half-way line to stand on when Christ calls because he specifically calls individuals. He does not call countries or family groups or tribes or friends; he calls the individuals which form them to break the ties which have been a part of their lives, to leave everything to follow him.

Bonhoeffer also points out that the minute the call is accepted, there is no direct relationship except with Christ. All relationships hereafter are mediated by Christ - both relationships with the Father and relationships with other men and women. "We are separated from one another by an unbridgeable gulf of otherness and strangeness which resists all our attempts to overcome it by means of natural association or emotional or spiritual union. There is no way from one person to another."

It is an interesting thought to turn over in my head. The idea that Christ's call to me demands surrender of all direct relationships. Of course, the pro to this surrender is the knowledge of the promise of community and the purity of love for others that comes through Christ's mediation - whether they also have answered the call or whether they are still being sought.

Still, it is rare that surrender is easy.


1 Timothy 4

Verses that caught my eye:

Have nothing to do with godless myths and old wives' tales; rather, train yourself to be godly. For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come.
This is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance (and for this we labor and strive), that we have put our hope in the living God, who is the Savior of all men, and especially of those who believe.

Be diligent in these matters; give yourself wholly to them, so that everyone may see your progress. Watch your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers.


My mind is a little bit gone to mush, due in part to the long West Central days that I rejoice in (despite their wear on my body), and a little bit due to the long and draining swim that occupied my evening. It's rare that I get upset enough to just need to swim but that was the case tonight.

Yet these verses capture my attention. There is something about them which draws me in, beckons me to inspect them just a bit more closely than the neighboring verses.

How do these words change my life? They should, shouldn't they? The Word of God - the living and active Word that cuts like a double edged sword - should profoundly affect my life each time I inspect it. Tonight finds me wondering what godless myths and old wives' tales Paul was referring to. Simple false religion? Or something more? Superstition seems like a viable translation. But what does that mean for me? What am I not seeing? I do want to train myself to be godly. I want that more than I want physical fitness and health - I truly do - and that's a great deal. This kind of ties into the pull I feel from the last verses - orthodoxy has always been quite important to me. I want to believe - and do - what is right. But what is my motivation? To be good? But why? Why do I desire goodness? Why do I desire God? Undoubtedly we were created to desire God, but why do I desire righteousness? Simply to be righteous? It's a sort of catch-22. I want to want it for the right reasons, so does that automatically disqualify it?

I'm not sure. My mind is still grappling with that one. Here's what I do know: I want the latter part of that first verse - the reason Paul labored - to be true. I want to work always because I hope in the Living God, the God who can pick up broken pieces and put them back together, the God who is still in control, even in the midst of incredible chaos.

On love and marriage. And rest.

At the present moment, I sit in the guest room of my brother's home as the sounds of the concluding numbers of the annual jazz festival waft gently and soothingly through the open windows from the park across the street. The time that I spent here, though a few days from being finished, has been so restful and rejuvenating. The greyhound adventure was rather calm, though it had its interesting moments, and I am beginning to feel more like myself.

The last few weeks have been truly draining. So many conflicts, both internal and external, waged war on my spirit and the grueling tests that ended the year were no help. As much as I love my community and all that I do in Joplin, I had to leave. I looked forward to leaving. Though I did not realize the extent of the damage that the last month inflicted, I did know that it wasn't healthy for me to stay there - the feelings that I had been suppressing were bound to roll over the top. I know suppression is rarely healthy but I think that it was in this case. I have a habit of imposing unfair expectations on people and then becoming quite disappointed when they fail to live up to them. While holding in all of my thoughts towards the end made the last days a living hell at some times, it saved the people I love from my hurtful words, and for that I am grateful. It was important for me to leave and process everything, in order to heal and be able to contribute to the community again.

Then the storm hit. If my emotions had been in shambles before such an event, the wreckage was far from distinguishable after. I have no claim on anyone's pity, because I was not there, nor do I have any right to call what I felt even a glimmer of survivor's guilt. Yet there was an emotional attachment to the city that made my heart turn within my chest. The few days I spend at home turned from a Sabbath to days of walking around with a heavy heart and great sadness. Hours were spent staring at the wreckage, trying to mentally map the pictures flashing across the television and computer screens. The time that wasn't poured into grieving and praying for Joplin was devoted to studying to become a re-certified lifeguard, and then I almost immediately shipped out to Oklahoma, a girl running on empty and ready for distraction. Even my quiet time, my time with Jesus, suffered greatly.

But in this home I have found greater peace than what I could anticipate. In the delighted smiles of my nephew and the long talks with my sister-in-law about love and marriage and family, I have felt joy. It is wonderful to feel someone pouring into me in the way that Erin is. It is wonderful to talk to someone who has been in my shoes and felt as I do, to talk to her about the beginning of her and Nathan's relationship and things that pertain to love and self-image. As I watch their little family together, I see a "someday dream," one that has come to pass for her and one that I still fervently pray for.

While I think I could remain unmarried for the rest of my days and survive, I know that I crave a marriage. I want to be a God-honoring woman no matter where I am or what my relationship status is, and so I pursue God first and foremost. Yet there are days when my someday dreams crop up and get the best of me. I want to embark on the adventure of marriage, of serving God together for life, of furthering the kingdom by two people, divinely unified for all days. But I think the God part is far more important than the two people part.

These thoughts (not regarding a certain someone, but in general) began to chyrstalize after a recent trip to the movie theater. I rarely go to the movies (before this one, I think I saw Toy Story in June). It's a lot of money for something that doesn't retain my attention well. And a long time to sit still. But some friends were going, and I decided I was in the right mood. We saw the movie Something Borrowed, with Kate Hudson and John Kransinski and a whole slew of other talented people. The story is that Kate Hudson is engaged to this guy who's evidently had feelings for her best friend forever but thought they were unreciprocated. The night of the friend's 30th birthday, truth is revealed and so begins the affair. For a long time it goes back and forth between them feeling awful about sneaking around and painting Kate Hudson's character as the bad guy. Surprisingly, months go by before the fiance makes a choice between the best friend and Kate Hudson. I mean, who saw that coming? A guy who's good enough to sleep with the best friend of his fiance doesn't have the stones to give a definite answer to either woman? Wow, crazy.

The movie really got under my skin for some reason. I'm sure part of it was my emotional vulnerability, though I wouldn't discount the annoying habit I have of analyzing everything that come through my mind and philosophically dissecting it in terms of everyday practicality. After wrestling with it for a few days, here's what it came down to:

I have come to disdain chick flicks. I'm tired of movies about desperate, lonely girls who do stupid things in pursuit of a forbidden man, who in turn loves them for their immoral and selfish ways, claiming great emotional connection as the end all be all.

That's not the woman I want to be. So am I doomed to single-dom? Since I want to have a man nobly and God-fearingly pursue me, respect me, love me? Since I want to fall in love once and have Christ at the center? Since I want to be in love with a man who loves me in spite of - not because - my character flaws, a man who pushes me to be a better, more Christ following woman? Since I crave more than an emotional connection, but a moral, intellectual, and spiritual connection that preludes any sort of physical or emotional vulnerability? Am I facing a future full of lonely nights and endless bags of cat food because I want the man I love to enable me, to push me and challenge me in serving God? Because I want a partner in ministry and a man to help in bringing glory to the King, the Creator of the universe and the Redeemer of souls? Does that rule our the possibility of romance and passion and deep, deep love?

Doubtful.

As much as I crave this experience, this connection, this love, as I much as I desire to be a wife and confidante and lover and servant to a man to whom I have given the days of my earthly existence and the trust of a life together, I could not be happy in a relationship lacking such things. I'd rather live the singe life forever.

Rarely am I comfortable sharing such intimate thoughts, yet there is a point in all my rambling. I'm tired of the lowering expectations for romance and building a life together. I feel like girls are falling prey to the myth that men can't be better, can't change. I'm not suggesting that withholding all affection and intimacy is the answer to a morally degenerative society, but I do think that - to some extent - when ladies have high expectations, men rise to meet them. I can't help but wonder how many men would become better leaders, better husbands and fathers, if woman could accept their identity as beloved daughters and sisters in Christ rather than pursuing an identity as a wife, mother, lover, girlfriend, etc.

It'd be an interesting experiment, I think. I could be wrong, I don't know. But that knowledge does not compel me to change the way I'm living. If my expectations are that morbidly incorrect, I think I'd rather miss out on the whole thing anyway.

Storms

A mere twenty hours after leaving my college hometown, a tornado ripped portions of the city to shreds. Most news sources have their own cover of the stories. We sat in front of the TV as the devastation became more and more publicized. The city is unrecognizable. My heart breaks for those who lost so much. It is unfathomable, especially as far away as I am. I know that it won't truly be real for me until I drive down those roads myself and see the lingering after-effects of such a power storm. How I long to be there with my friends, of whom I am so very proud as they continue to pour themselves out for their neighbors. I love watching them be the hands and feet of Christ, a truly united church serving their community.

Editorial Note: a friend just text me to report that the sirens are going off in Joplin and a tornado was sighted a few miles north of Joplin. Devastating. Terrifying. Oh, how my heart breaks.

Yet life goes on. We pray and we give and we pray some more. But ultimately, time marches on. The recovery and rescue attempts take less and less of our time and attention as the daily chores and information claim our focus. There's nothing wrong with this, I know. Yet it is hard not to feel guilty. It is difficult not to feel like a victim, even so many miles away. My heart is with those that I love in the city where I reside most of the year. But other responsibilities make it impossible for me to go back to this beloved place. If I could move back, I'd be there in a heartbeat. But I have to prepare for my summer, I've committed to spending time with my brother and sister-in-law, I have to move to camp. I wish with everything in me that I could spend these days in Joplin; yet I am excited about the things which will fill my days instead. And I wrestle with this. I know in my head that I shouldn't feel this obligation necessarily. I know that it is okay for me to be upset and appropriate for me to call on my Heavenly Father and beg for His mercy. But there is no place for my feelings of guilt. It is simply selfish.

But I cannot feel excited without this guilt. I go to update social media sites and can say nothing but to re-iterate my prayers for Joplin. My Facebook news feed is an odd blend of gruesome pictures of streets I drove down a few days ago and mundane daily news. The pictures look like something out of a bomb catastrophe. The trees are left barely standing, naked without the leaves or small branches to decorate them. Homes are simply a pile of wooden planks mixed with years of rubbish torn apart. It's indescribable.

Yet I still wish that I was there. I know that God is working mightily in that city right now, even as the citizens sit terrified in their basement.

I cannot conclude this post without relating my own mundane news. While I would love for my travels to take me to Joplin, I will instead be traveling to Oklahoma City on a greyhound bus. While I am quite familiar with school buses, I have never taken so much as a city bus, much less a greyhound. I am oddly excited. I am also excited to spend a week with some of my favorite people. And I am excited to go to camp in just over a week. Mostly, I am excited for life to go on, to move past this terrible tornado and to watch Joplin re-build, to see the lasting Kingdom effects of this devastation - to watch the beauty rise out of the ashes.