four-minute friday: risk
Go.
The first two months of 2010—can you believe it’s the end of February already?!—have held lots of risks for me. Y’all remember that’s my one word focus for the year, right? (What? I’m living in Georgia. I can say y’all.)
My year of risk is well underway.
I went on vacation with a bunch of near-strangers.
I rappelled 100 feet into a Mexican canyon.
I’ve intentionally endured quite a few awkward situations.
But those have paled in comparison to the risks I’ve taken with my heart.
I’ve prayed risky prayers. I’ve been more authentic in the moment. I’ve wrestled with truly forgiving my wayward husband.
And as I look toward the horizon, there is a lot that makes me very nervous.
Like the six week ministry fundraising trip I’m embarking on this spring. By myself. It feels incredibly daunting after always having a wingman (who was also the extrovert and public speaker of the two of us).
I signed up for a half-marathon. Which I fear will be a health risk more than anything else. But I am determined to cross the finish line no matter what.
And I’m going to continue risking big with my heart. Although it hasn’t started getting any easier yet.
Your turn to check in.
How have you done with your one word?
I’d love to see us rally around each other to cheer one another on!
Done.
my altogether different africa
The Gypsy Mama and I have been living each other’s lives. Well, kinda.
I’ve lived in South Africa for 12 years. Just about as long as she’s lived in America.
She’s a South African married to an American. I’m an American married to a South African. Or at least I was. But that’s a whole other story for a whole other day.
South Africa has become home for me, although it was certainly an adjustment. Things are just different. Like the common practice of not refrigerating condiments. And grown men grocery shopping in their bare feet. And the fact that jam means jelly and jelly means jell-o.
We drive on the wrong left side of the road in cars that are more ladylike than they are in the States. They have bonnets and boots instead of hoods and trunks.
There’s no central heating (even though we get snow where I live!) but I’ve learned to build fires in my fireplace the old fashioned way. I’d make Bear Grylls proud. The windows, which are permanently open in summer, have no screens. And I hate bugs. ::shudder::
I’m still trying to understand the difference between the South African phrases now, just now, and now now. Because they basically all mean I’ll get to it when I get to it.
Speaking of… Things happen slower in Africa. Which often causes a flare-up of my Kinko’s-quick American impatience, but has taught me some valuable lessons: Faster isn’t always better. God cares more about the missionary than the mission. Relationships matter.
Nuggets of wisdom lace every contrast between my here-home and there-home. And I love that. There is a unique joy in discovering more about God and myself in the tapestry of cultural diversity.
I love my altogether different and altogether beautiful Africa.
In all her grit and glory.
[originally a guest post on The Gypsy Mama's site...]
gypsy for a day
Did you know I can speak Afrikaans?
(It’s one of South Africa’s 11 official languages, in case you have no idea what I’m talking about.)
I can. Well, just enough to get me into trouble hold my own in a conversation.
I’m pretty rusty since I’ve been Stateside for over a year now. But apparently I can still speak it well enough to impress a South African.
I don’t remember how I first wandered over to The Gypsy Mama’s website, but I’m so glad I did.
She basically lives the inverse of my life—a South African living in America. And she’s a beautiful writer. Simply beautiful.
We moved from met-on-the-net to hugging-in-real-life when Lisa-Jo came out to my Starbucks meet-up in DC last November. And I couldn’t resist busting out some Afrikaans for the occasion. So fun to have someone to speak it with!
Well, Lisa-Jo gracefully rolled out the welcome mat for me over at her blog today. I’m honored to be her first guest poster (poster?) ever!
So come on over to hear about some differences between South Africa and America.
(Don’t worry. I wrote in English.)
And while you’re there, spread some Gritty love to The Gypsy Mama.
i’m sorry, Lord
Lord, I’m sorry for thinking You love me the same way others do.
For assuming You’ll withhold affection until I’ve paid penance or until You’re “over” whatever I may have done.
For imagining that You hold me at arm’s length and invite me in only when You want to want me.
For thinking You view me through eyes of disappointment, seeing only how far I am from all I could be and should be.
For presuming You only love me because You have to and not because You want to.
For guessing You hold my mistakes against me, just as I do with myself.
For acting as though You think I’m discardable and unwantable.
For forgetting that You love me for who I am and not for who I can be.
Lord, I want to believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.
even greater things
I’ve seen God do some incredible things through me in my lifetime.
He used a poem I wrote as a nine-year-old girl to bring my separated parents back together.
On my mission trips as a teenager, He spoke through my faltering words to lead people to salvation.
I’ve stepped out in faith for eleventh-hour financial provision, and had money miraculously show up at the last minute.
In my early years of living in Africa, I rubbed cataracts out of a woman’s eyes.
I saw a man’s leg grow out six inches as I prayed over him.
I pulled a lame man to his feet and watched him take his first steps.
I get goosebumps just thinking about the amazing things God has done. And I feel humbled that He’s chosen to use me.
But it all feels like ancient history.
It’s been a very long time since God’s done something supernatural through me.
But I know it’s not because He’s changed.
I think somewhere along the line, I stopped believing Him for the miraculous.
My faith grew dim.
I got “busy”.
And I stopped actively trusting.
But I want my faith back. I want to trust Him for the miraculous again.
I want to trust Him for even greater things.
That feels like a huge risk right now. My battle-weary heart is scared to hope, to believe.
But every mighty move of God in my life has required an act of faith.
And, Lord knows, I need Him to move mightily.
Not just through me, but in me.
So I’m asking Him to strengthen my faith and fill me with the assurance that He is trustworthy.
Whether He ever does another miracle through my hands or not, I want to live with heart-risking trust that He can.
gettin’ my smile back
As you might’ve picked up by my silence throughout The Internets this past week, I’ve been out of commission.
Last Tuesday I had a freak snow-tubing accident that involved my teeth and the back of someone’s head.
The head made out with mild injuries. Like a nasty goose-egg and a headache that didn’t let up for days. Which makes it mild only by comparison.
My teeth, on the other hand, got “jacked up” (to quote my friend).
My top front teeth bent so far backwards that I couldn’t even close my mouth.
After a trip to the ER and two emergency dentist visits, my teeth are back to normal.
The dentist described my treatment as though I had a broken bone—which had to be set twice—and it’s now being held in place with a split. I’m on a diet of soft foods and pain relievers till it heals. Maybe a month.
God’s hand has definitely been evident. Things could’ve been a lot worse. I could’ve broken my nose or lost my teeth entirely. He surrounded me with friends’ loving care and His provision was so clear in the free dental work I received. (Which, by the way, made me cry more than the pain did.)
I’m slowly starting to try to catch up on all I’ve missed. The only thing rivaling my overflowing inbox is my growing to-do list.
So my plan this week is simple: Be more productive than last week.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
Especially since I can already cross write a blog post off my list.
the double standard of my heart
For months I’ve been praying for my husband’s heart to return to the Lord.
For Niel to feel the conviction of the Holy Spirit.
For the consequences of his decisions and actions to open his eyes to how deceived he’s become.
For him to hit rock bottom.
For God to do whatever it takes to get his attention.
But if I’m being most honest, I wasn’t as concerned with Niel’s repentance as I was with him feeling the weight of what he’s done.
The reality is that I sometimes still want him to hurt like I’ve hurt, more than I want him to live forgiven and free.
I’ve had to come face-to-face with the double-standard of my heart.
Because my struggle to genuinely pray not only for Niel’s repentance but also for his forgiveness really only means one thing—
I don’t realize just how much I’ve been forgiven for.
I want to accept the work of the cross for my sins, but not for my husband’s.
As if my sins have been lesser.
Or even fewer.
When they are neither.
“…God’s kindness leads you toward repentance.”
I remember gasping out loud when I saw that verse as if with new eyes.
And I’ve wrestled with Him long and hard over the implications of it.
It has taken me a very long time to get to this point, but I’ve begun praying—with tear-filled eyes still—for God’s kindness to lead Niel to repentance.
I’ve started asking God to smother him with His goodness and grace and mercy.
Some days it’s easier to pray that way than others.
Some days I can’t at all.
On those days, I just sit in the reality of what it truly means.
And I pray for God’s kindness to lead me to repentance.
Originally a guest post over at In Progress >
four-minute friday: something
Go.
My brain is struggling to land somewhere I can four-minute about.
I’ve got nothing.
Because I shouldn’t really soapbox about how much I resent the Snowpocalypse that has been kicking DC’s butt all week. I mean, I don’t even live there.
I can’t explain the stressful few hours I had yesterday afternoon, most of it spent on the phone. On hold. And there really is no more helpless feeling than being left on hold for 45 minutes.
I won’t bore you with the story of why I packed and unpacked and repacked all in less than 24 hours.
I can tell you I’ve got that Christmas Eve I-can’t-sleep-cause-I’m-so-excited thing going on. And I won’t even mind when my alarm wakes me up at 4:30 AM.
If you know how un-morning-person I am, you know that’s a really big deal.
But it’s so worth it.
So. Worth. It.
But that’s all I can say.
So really, you should tell me something.
Anything.
Done.
other than good intentions
Finish this line:
The road to hell is paved with…
i’m still not sure about this one
I meet new people all the time.
And there’s often a point in the conversation that goes something like this:
OPTION A
Them: Where are you from?
Me: New York.
Them: How’d you end up in Atlanta?
Me: Well…
OPTION B
Them: What do you do?
Me: I’m the founder of a ministry in Africa.
Them: Oh wow. What are you doing in Atlanta?
Me: Well…
OPTION C
A variation of A or B.
And then I have to try to follow the “Well…” with some sort of explanation.
It’s got me thinking about the words I use to sum up my current life situation.
I’m short and sweet and to the point. I certainly don’t unload my two-and-a-half-year heartache on them.
I don’t answer with bitterness or anger or resentment. There is sadness in my words, for sure. There’s grief in my eyes.
And I simply state the facts.
But now I’m wondering if I still say more than I actually should.
My six-sentence answer usually includes:
- I’ve been married for 9 years.
- My husband and I ran a ministry in Africa.
- He had an affair.
- He decided he wants a divorce.
- I’m living in Georgia for a season of restoration.
- I’ll be going back to Africa.
And all of that is true.
But I wonder if I’m hiding behind #s 3 and 4. Because I feel like I have to mention the affair and point out that he left me.
But I wonder what my motive is.
My unconscious thought in that moment is that simply saying I’m going through a divorce leaves the question of why. And they might think I cheated. Or assume I’m the one who chose to leave.
So I seemingly take on a defensive position right from the get-go. I fight to maintain my image right from the start.
And maybe I shouldn’t.
Isn’t that just plain ol’ ugly arrogance? Or at the very least, insecurity?
The fact that I am the head of a ministry adds to the complexity of this for me. I don’t want people to wonder who left who when I’m asking them to trust me to lead Thrive.
But maybe I need to let truth speak for itself.
And let God defend me.
Right from the get-go.
I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure this one out.
