Pray for SPU

Someone opened fire on my campus.  

I grieve.

For the death of Paul Lee.

That my people have to face this tragedy.

I am angry.

At the shooter who killed Paul Lee and injured Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler. 

At my society that produced this person.

I am grateful.

For John Meis, who took decisive action.

For the strength of my community as we support each other.

I chose to come to SPU after discovering my Grandma had a terminal illness.  I hoped that when tragedy struck I would be in a loving community.

Now, we collectively walk through the valley of the shadow of death. The truth of who we are is obvious.  In every building, on every lawn I see people being Christ to each other and I am proud to be here.


I pray.

For everyone grieving the loss of Paul Lee.

For the full healing of Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler.

For the redemption of Otto Miller Hall.

For wisdom for the leaders who make the hard decisions as we move forward.

For grace and justice for the shooter and his family.  

For all unspoken prayers only my heart can say.

For grief to happen.

For peace to be felt.

For us all to find forgiveness.

I stand.

On the thresholds of my campus and declare that evil will not have the final word here.

In confidence that our God reigns.



Click here to support the victims and their families through SPU's "Rise Above" fund.

The Misnamed Trio

And suddenly, in a flash, I could relate to the three men in the fiery furnace. 

You probably know them as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, though their mother's refer to them as Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah, but almost nobody knows that now. 

Here is what I used to think: King Nebuchadnezzar--let's call him Rupert--crafted an idol of himself and demanded everyone bow down to worship it.  The Misnamed Trio refused, because they only bow down to God. Rupert threw them into a furnace that burned so hot, the guards who threw them in died (my Sunday school teacher's always emphasized that).  But suddenly, Rupert saw FOUR people in the furnace, and one was super shiny.  He told the men to exit the furnace and realized they served the real God because even their eyebrows were still in tact.

If you have ever run the propane too long before starting the barbecue, you know how easy it is to lose your eyebrows.

I always thought this meant I should never bow down to a big golden statue.  And if someone tried to throw me into a furnace, God wouldn't let me die.

Then - something changed.  Like a crack of lightening (in the middle of a prayer meeting) I related to Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. 

These were three guys who loved Jesus.  Then Rupert, the most powerful worldly force around, (Daniel 2:26-40) tells them to worship his statue.  They refuse.  They are persecuted.  God shows up.  Amazing.

I ask myself; what is Rupert telling me to worship above all else?  What does the world say I should dedicate the majority of my time and attention to?  

Myself.  

And I do.

I am a proud person.  I was afraid of praying for humility for a long time because God would probably make me look like a fool.  I couldn't risk what the lover of my soul might do to me if I became vulnerable like that.

Then I talked to Pastor Bonnie, who is so wise.  Humility, she said, is realizing it is not all about you.

Game changer. 

I can absolutely live a life that is not all about me.  I think.

I reject Rupert's plans for my time and attention.  I'm going to mess up.  Now you know and that could be good or bad.  Though since it isn't all about me, you may not even consider it once the post is over.

It is going to be rough, but God will show up.  And I will come out of this with my eyebrows fully intact.

Please Jesus, let me keep my eyebrows.

Not the Best?

This post in honor of "Butter my Biscuits," a long-standing camp volunteer with a very different name he uses in real life. He suggested the idea of "Beta Man," who doesn't see the need to give 110% all the time.

"Try your best."

Teachers, parents, posters, notebooks, greeting cards, and advertisements all encouraging the same mode of operation: your best.

My best self is friendly to everyone, parallel parks successfully on the first try, and cooks the bacon to perfect crispness every single time.

My best self socializes well, always does her homework before midnight, and never drips marinara sauce on her mint capris.

My best self is an excellent communicator, wakes up without the snooze button, and daily eats a proper serving of fruits and vegetables.

My best self is not me.

I tried to be my best self for a while.  Then I got tired of always trying, and reverted to "real me." Real Me has thoughts, feelings, and needs that ruin the Best Self image.  To say the very least, Real Me has marinara sauce on my mint capris.*

That isn't to say that I am no good.  I am, in fact, glorious.  The Ultimate Creator crafted me from the salt of the earth with the tips of his fingers; how could I be less than remarkable?

So - is "best" what we are really supposed to strive for?  Nope.  I think we should shoot for "genuine." The True Self.

My True Self usually needs to shimmy the car three or four times before I successfully wiggle into a parallel parking spot. But does that really matter?

Being your True Self is not an excuse to let all your selfish tendencies run wild.  Nope.  True Self is about embracing who you were created to be.

I was not created to skip class and turn in my papers late.  I was created to glorify My Maker.

And since My Maker said to go to college, stay in college, and take an extra year, than I had better do it to the best of my ability.



Shoot.  Usually, by the end of these things I feel like I've figured something out, but there I'm still trying to be "the best."

Dear Jesus,
What exactly should I be thinking about this now? Please help.
Amen.


*I inexplicably find myself eating spaghetti every time I wear my mint capris.

Why College?

Deborah Rodriguez was a beautician living in Michigan. Dissatisfied with her life, she joined an aid team going to Afghanistan.

The rest of her team - Doctors, dentists, and nurses - had obvious parts to play.  But what could a hair dresser possibly do?

As her book, Kabul Beauty School tells, she could do a whole lot. Sharing her skills, she taught classes of women how to do hair, nails, and make up. With these skills, the women provided for their families and earned positions of respect in their households and communities.

With the technical skills of a hair dresser she turned around the lives of hundreds of women.

When I was in Haiti, I met an American woman who went to Haiti to pour concrete.  While she was there, the Haitians asked her if she could teach some kids.

And when I met her, she had been teaching for the last two years with no plans to quit. A high school diploma plus construction experience, and she was doing important work in a place that needed her.

I went to High School Camp a few weeks back, and a speaker came who had traveled the world with YWAM.  22 countries, 6 years, and who knows how many lives changed for Jesus?  He just graduated High School and started going.

So - what the heck am I going to college for?

I really just want to help people, but is college making me over qualified?  I mean, what good is a communications and sociology degree to people who need to learn to make a living?

Or maybe the opposite is true: maybe I'm under qualified.  I don't know anything useful to anyone.

I've been wandering the whirlwind of options for life after graduation: Haiti, , Fulbright, Peace Corps, Masters Degree, Kenya, Masters Degree and Peace Corps, Fiji, Teach for America, DTS, Starbucks Barista...and I can't help but wonder why all of this "education" is going to matter.  

If I wasn't so certain God wanted me in college, I'd be out of here in a heartbeat. But God's got a better plan. I'll try hard to be patient and wait.

Memoirs of a Newbie: High School Camp

I have never worked with high school students before.  Spending a week as a cabin leader this August was like learning a foreign language when you're already in the country, with a broken jaw.

My eight girls arrived Monday afternoon.  I woke up Tuesday morning and groaned, thinking: I'm still here! 

Lesson #1: Always seek advice from people who have been there before.  

Ten minutes of conversation with a 8-year cabin leader veteran told me everything I did wrong the day before. Mentality corrected, I lead the worst morning devotions ever.

Lesson #2: Never stop praying.

So, I started praying.  I prayed during lunch. I prayed during the all-camp game. I prayed while swimming. I prayed during dinner. I prayed during worship, hearing the burdens of some of my precious girls.

Breakthrough.

God took Rachel, Rachel's problems, and Rachel's emotions and set them aside.  When my strong girls broke and their hurt leaked out, my empty space soaked it up.  Helpless, hurting, we waited for Jesus. 

Lesson #3: The Holy Spirit will always come.

Tumbling from my lips in the shape of words, God came to bring hope. 

And the hurt siphoned away. And peace came.  

And for the rest of the week, I prayed.

Except Thursday.  Thursday I spent the afternoon swing dancing and playing on lake toys with a group of people only to happy to make sure I had a marvelous time. 

Lesson #4: God likes to have fun too.

My initial terror gave way, and I had a fantastic week.  No, I am not proficient in grades 9-12.  But God will always be around to build bridges across language gaps, and all will be well for it.

Insatiable

That bigger and better we all long for

That feeling I've always wanted

The ultimate sense of happiness, peace, joy, belonging--

I wont find it here.

It is eternity tugging at my heart

Pulling my soul from its deepest roots

Stirring the depths of every human

"He has also sent eternity in the hearts of men." (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

That deep, insatiable yearning

will not be met here.

Yet, I will not despair.

I rest in faith stronger than hope.

Eternity will come.

I know I will be satisfied.

Sometimes I Feel like a Pillow

Somedays I feel like a  pillow.
The place people go when they've no where else to be.
The reliable safe heart always ready for a cozy memory.
A dependable place to cry or pound angry fists.

Always forgiving.
Always accepting.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Neglected for something better.
The snot stains from your grief become repulsive.
The lumps from your fist too disconcerting.
And really - the case was never that attractive anyway.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Shoved into the closet
Mixed with ugly sweaters
and shrunken winter jackets.

And there I take the tears
And there I take the anger
And there I'm not wanted
But there I'm left to be.

Until,

She comes.

Or rather,

I go.

To hands big enough to hold the world.
They squeeze me,
Knead me,
And ask why I stayed away so long.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow
Fresh.
Full.
And ready for my purpose.