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
When my friend Tam asked me to write a post for her blog on an aspect of my story I haven’t shared yet, I didn’t know what to write.
I’ve shared candidly here at the Grit about what life has been like for me in the wake of my husband’s infidelity and decision for divorce. I couldn’t think of anything I’ve specifically been holding back on talking about.
And then it hit me.
I knew I needed to put words to the current wrestling in my heart’s journey.
In light of my desire to intentionally be more authentic in the moment rather than only in past tense, I knew I needed to take this risk.
It was time to write about how hard it is to pray for Niel with the right motives.
And what that says about my own heart.
So I did.
Even though it’s very much still a struggle for me.
Click over to In Progress to read about the double standard of my heart. >
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.
are you tired?
I have been a fan of Catalyst since I first attended their conference 4 years ago. (And I got to go again last year!) I love their passion for training next generation leaders. That’s what Thrive Africa is all about, so my heart just resonates with theirs.
I have learned so much from Catalyst over the years. They are an amazing organization that I highly respect and admire.
So you can imagine how excited and honored I am to be a guest blogger on their site today!
I’d love it if you headed over there to read (and comment!) on my post. And while you’re there, take some time to look around. There are tons of great resources on their site!
Catalyst Post – Are You Tired?
His nail-scarred hands
I just saw something in the Resurrection story that I’ve never noticed before. I don’t know how I’ve missed this my entire life, but I did.
Jesus died a horrible, brutal death on the cross. And then He was divinely and supernaturally raised from the dead.
He received the ultimate healing.
All of His organs and bodily systems were revived. Though His heart hadn’t beaten for three days, it sprang to life again.
He was fully restored. Completely whole. Totally healthy.
But His scars remained.
We know because He showed them to His followers as proof that it was really Him, back from the dead. He even invited Thomas to touch His scarred hands and feel His marred side.
Jesus certainly didn’t need to bear scars. The power of God that raised Him from the dead could have easily removed the visible evidence of what had killed Him.
So there must be a reason He chose to keep His scars.
I don’t presume to know what that reason is.
But I can’t help but wonder.
Maybe He kept His scars so I would know it’s okay that I still have mine.
