a force to be reckoned with
Words really do change the world.
Words, in fact, are what created the world. God didn’t just think it all into existence. He spoke it. “Let there be…” And there was.
And as creatives fashioned in His image, our words have that same creative power.
Our words are a force to be reckoned with.
Words spoken, written, sung, signed…
History recounts example after example of words changing culture, popular thought, belief systems…
Martin Luther and Martin Luther King Jr. come to mind.
So do Nelson Mandela, Bono, and Joshua of Old Testament fame.
Words change the world by changing hearts.
Those amazing communicators who shaped history (as well as the future) did so by finding new and innovative ways to put words to their thoughts. And in doing so, they connected with people’s hearts.
Hearts changed.
Communities changed.
Cultures changed.
The world changed.
I’m not naive enough to think I am destined to change the world. I’m not foolish enough even to think that I could. Or should. But this much I know is true:
I want my words to change hearts.
The ripple effect that hopefully occurs after that, isn’t up to me. It’s only mine to skip the stone…
When I think about the kinds of words it takes to truly influence positive change in people’s hearts, I see some recurring themes…
Truth.
Vulnerability.
Passion.
Love.
Humility.
Wisdom.
Authenticity.
So those have become my goals.
I strive to communicate my heart with truth, vulnerability, passion, love, humility, wisdom, and authenticity.
And if mine is the only heart to be changed in that pursuit, perhaps that is all the world-change I need.
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Today’s post is part of an intentional conversation about “Communication That Changes the World.” Join the convo. Write a post, tweet about it using the hashtag #SpeakForAChange, and come back to link your post below.
band of brothers
I spent hours today reading through the war journal of a Marine in World War II.
But not just any Marine… One nicknamed Swede, who served with my Grandpa.
Swede’s health is failing, and his family has been racing the clock to type up his old journals, compile his stories from the War, and track down the families of the men who served with him (who were named in his journals).
Grandpa and Swede’s Marine company fought in the Battle of Peleliu, which had the highest casualty rate of any battle in the War. The fact that they both survived, along with Swede’s handwritten accounts, is astounding. Reading through the journal felt like I was watching Band of Brothers. It was filled with fun memories of poker nights and basketball games, as well as horrific tragedies of wounded warriors…
My Grandpa, who passed away when I was 3 years old, rarely spoke of his experiences as a Marine, besides a few lighthearted stories about his buddies. So reading through these journals has made my Grandpa come alive to me in a whole new way. What a priceless gift!
There were a few pictures that included my Grandpa, and all I could do was stare long and hard at his face… into his eyes. Because in his face I see my Dad and my brothers. The resemblances are haunting in the best possible way.
Carmine Ronzino is pictured on the bottom left
In an email Swede’s daughter sent my brother, she said that her dad “said Carmine talked a lot about his family”. That made me smile so big, inside and out. That short sentence says so much about who Grandpa was, and the legacy he passed on to all of us.
I am so very proud to be a Ronzino.
Tell us something about your family
and legacy…
channeling the divine
I keep thinking about Adam.
In the Garden.
And how God asked him to name the animals.
God didn’t ask Adam to do this because He was all out of ideas.
It’s not that His creative juices had run dry or His mojo had gone missing.
He wasn’t too tired from all that creating.
He didn’t have “creator’s block”.
God asked Adam to name the animals because He wanted to invite him into the creative process with Him.
Adam was created to create. God wanted him to be part of the incredible work of creation along with Him.
So while God formed each creature out of the dust of the ground, as only He could, He invited Adam to play a creative role as well, by determining what each animal would be called. Forever.
Even in the simple task of naming what God had fashioned by His own hand, Adam was channeling the Divine. Because creativity is God at work through us.
But God is ever a gentleman.
He will never force Himself on us.
Ever.
So when you and I sit down to create—whatever that looks like for me or for you—we are met with a challenge. A calling. A question.
Will I attempt to create on my own?
Or will I invite God into the creative process with me?
Will I fashion something solely with the strength, wisdom, and creativity in my own heart, mind, and hands?
Or will I purposefully choose to channel the Divine?
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Tell us about your creative process…
taking it deeper: the double-standard of my heart
Forgiveness is a tricky thing…
Just when I think I’ve really gotten it, I realize there is still so much more I need to learn.
And just how messy my heart really is.
Because I live as though I need forgiveness less than others do.
Like my ex-husband.
Ugh…
Forgiveness is a painful journey. Painful… But ultimately healing. And freeing.
Journey with me?
My post on A Deeper Story…
On forgiveness, prayer, and the double-standard of my heart…
faith to follow
I only lived in Oregon for a few months. February through June. Less than half a year. But leaving there wasn’t easy…
I knew saying goodbye to the now-three Stegalls would be the hardest part. And it absolutely was. Cathi and Mark are family, not friends, and I hated leaving them. And while I’m so unbelievably grateful to have been there for Lincoln’s first week of life, I am so sad to be missing all the weeks that have come after that. I’m thankful for pictures and texts and Skype that make Oregon not feel so far away. And no matter where we are, we’ll always be the Stodginos. (Stegalls + Hodges + Ronzino… get it? All together now: Awwwwwww!)
It was no surprise that I cried—a lot—over those goodbyes. Or that I was overwhelmed by the mere thought of yet another move… more change… more transition… I talk often of my love/hate relationship with the revolving door of my life. Saying goodbye to new friends who adopted me in when I moved in with the Hodges… well, that just plain sucked.
What I didn’t expect was for the Hodges’ last weekend at their church to impact me like it did.
It felt like such a gift to be with them for their final weekend of services at the church they helped pioneer and launch. This move was a big one for their family, and the significance of that was not lost on me. But as their pastor spoke such beautiful, honoring words about Brent and Tam and their 13 years of faithful service, I was struck with the weight of all they were leaving behind. The roots… The history… The lives they’d impacted… The community they loved. Hearing the pastor say “13 years”, it clicked with me in a new way. 13 years. That’s how long I lived in Africa…
Brent and Tam were part of the team that founded the church. They were a vital part of starting, growing, and establishing a now-flourishing ministry. They gave their blood, sweat, and tears to that place… To those people… And God called them to walk away and step into something new.
I couldn’t help but be moved to tears at the gravity of all that. Of all they were leaving, but also of their incredible faith to follow. Change is never easy, but I have seen the Hodges embark on it—and embrace it—with grace and fortitude. And tremendous faith. I’m so blessed to do life with this family…
How do you handle change and transition?
this is my story
I moved to Africa with a couple of very-full suitcases, $200, and a heart-cocktail of faith, naivety, passion, and foolishness. I was only 19.
I didn’t know much, but I knew that I loved Africa and her beautiful people. I didn’t set out on any grand mission or with any huge goals. I just wanted to meet needs where I could, and see what God would do with my meager fish-and-loaves life. I was hopeful that He could write a magnificent story for me and with me.
In the chasing of my dream, I found love. I got married, and together we pioneered a ministry that trained leaders and taught AIDS prevention in the poorest region of South Africa. God did astounding things. Constantly.
I watched Him open blind eyes, show up with eleventh hour provision, stop wildfires from destroying our mission base, and radically transform lives by His Spirit. After a decade of ministry, our team had grown to over 60 staff members, primarily African nationals. We trained over 100 pastors a year and taught 4000 public school students each week about living lives of purity and purpose.
God was writing a story I never could have imagined.
He truly multiplied our fish and loaves to nourish the masses. He created something out of our nothing. He made life out of our brokenness.
And then the story changed dramatically.
Everything crumbled to pieces when it came out that my husband had been unfaithful. For a year and a half. With a staff member, a friend of mine.
The pieces shattered even further when he announced he was done—with me and ministry. No matter how tightly I tried to cling to it all, I couldn’t hold any of it together. Not my marriage or my ministry or even my life… Everything seemed to unravel out from under me.
I fought both my story and the Story-teller. This isn’t how it was supposed to be!
It felt as though my story came to a screeching halt. But He kept writing…
After 13 years of ministry in Africa, I was forced to close down our operations in December. I permanently relocated back to the States, walking away from my home, my work, my community, my vision, my history.
I’ve been divorced for a few months now. It still feels strange to say, and even stranger to truly accept at a heart level. Losing someone by their choice evokes a grief deeper than death. There is loss and there is hurt. There is sadness and anger and mourning and relief and remorse. Sometimes all in the very same breath.
And underneath it all is the hole left in my everyday by the loss of someone I’ve lived one-third of my life with. It’s the small things I miss the most. Our comfortable routines. Our stupid jokes that no one else would ever think is funny. The way he’d draw diagrams when he was explaining something to me. His laughter…
The missing is deep. It’s a missing of what was. A missing of who was. A missing of what could’ve been. A missing of the story I was once living.
It’s as though I lost not only my future, but also my past.
I can’t find words to really capture what it means to feel as though I’ve lost my own history, but lately that is what I’m grieving the most. I don’t have a single person left in my life who walked that African road with me from start to finish. No one who was with me for all the memories, all the provision and lack, all the joys and heartaches. No one to corroborate what happened, fill in the blanks where my memory forgets, simply remember with me.
There is a unique loneliness in that.
And even as I type these words with no clear end in mind, I hear Him whisper: I was there. Sigh… To be honest, it is so hard to feel content and satisfied in that. But I know it’s true. He was there with me. In Him I still have history.
His. Story.
My history is more His story than mine anyway.
Whether or not anyone else knows the details, or my fuzzy brain loses track of it all, or I ever get to speak them out loud again, they are still there. They are His. And they are mine. No matter what.
In Him I still have a future. It is going to look very different than the one I’d been on track towards just a few years ago. It will be nothing like I ever thought it would. But He is already there, going before me to prepare the way. And to prepare me.
My story is more than the sum of my experiences. It is more than what I have seen and done and endured. It is more than what has happened to me.
I, too, am more than the sum of my chapters. I am more than my past or my present or my future. I am more than my history, forgotten or remembered.
I am His.
No matter what.
And that is my story.
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Published in the Praise & Coffee online magazine.
Follow @praiseandcoffee on Twitter.
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potsc
I am the harlot.
The prodigal.
The murderer.
The thief.
I am the one in need of scandalous grace.
Undeserved love.
New mercies every morning.
New mercies every moment.
I am People of the Second Chance.
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