I've seen a lot of sunsets.  Some of my favorites are in Boone, as the sun slips behind the mountains and the colors dance across the sky.  Some are in Raleigh, over Lake Crabtree where it's quiet and calm and I know I'm safe because I'm home.  Some are in the desert in Kenya, where I was thirsty and happy and moments pressed into my heart as the sun went down and the heat subsided.  Some were in Uganda over the Nile; my African home, my peaceful place.  

But my favorites were in South Sudan, as I showered with a tiny cup and a bowl under the banana trees, looking out into the overgrown forests that used to be so much more before the war, before all the animals were driven out and the people lost their coffee fields.  Now, it seems that all that's left are snakes.  

If we had been there, would we have been airlifted out, too?  Would we have evacuated or would we have said "no, I'm not leaving," as we grabbed Boy's hand and followed Diko back to the compound to play games.  Would we have even had a choice?  My heart goes out to the many people who were evacuated that didn't have a choice, and had to leave people they loved behind.  And my heart is broken, completely broken for every man, woman and child that had pride in their country on Saturday and woke up to violence on the Lord's day.  

I spent July 9th, 2013 celebrating two years of independence in South Sudan with hopeful South Sudanese nationals.  We celebrated the youngest nation in the world, and ate pineapples and passion fruit and rice until our bellies ached and we felt sleepy.  We watched as the Wadupe Development Committee started making plans to grow more coffee and to get serious about developing the people, their own initiative to bring life to a village eaten alive by war.  We supported them, sometimes just by the ministry of presence.  And they supported us as we struggled to carry water on our heads and get over bouts of Malaria, parasites and sad phone calls home to the people we missed so dearly.  

And we made plans, drew new ideas for the farms and the compound and Emma and I dreamed about what we would do after we finished school.  We would come back, of course, before the boys grow up and before we get too tired and cynical.  But until then, every day we would hug our boys and laugh with Susan, usually about me and how my hair looked crazy and I was clumsy.  And on the day she came up to me in the morning and said her father had died over night, we told her to go home and be with her family, it's okay don't come to work.  And that night we heard the drums as Susan mourned the loss of her father.  But I didn't hug Susan, because I didn't know if a hug would do anything from a woman so weak like me to a woman so strong like her.  Some days I held her baby as he cried, growing so hot from Malaria and probably feeling like his head was going to explode.  And her daughter, Winnie, stayed home from school to help her mother, hard at work helping us.  I miss our family.  

The boys.  We never even got to say goodbye.  But it was going to be okay because we would come back before Boy turns 12 and Diko turns 11, right?  One day they'll be walking back from the market and they'll see us coming on the path and we'll run to each other.  Maybe they'll know more English and maybe it won't matter because we don't need to speak the same language to have fun and be a little, weird family that started one week in July of 2013.  They will forever be a part of my reality, even if the only news from South Sudan right now is that US planes are being shot and Dinka and Nuer can't stop fighting deadly fights.  

I don't believe in giving up on family, or being afraid of Africa or being naive enough to think my plans haven't changed.  In the end, these are not my plans, they never have been.  For now, I will pray for South Sudan,  I will pray for peace, I will pray for restoration for the many families who lost loved ones this week, and I will pray that the people vying for control of this young nation can sit down and think about their actions like grown men and women.  And I will maintain a deep hope that one day we will go back, I will go back and give more hugs every day because I finally understand what it feels like to not know when you will see someone again.  

The sun will keep setting, wherever I am.  But one day, I'll wake up as it rises again, and these are the faces that will fill my heart.  One day.  

Some nights I wake up at 4 am and I lay in my bed, wondering how I got here.  More than two months have separated me from our adventure.  It was just yesterday that I lay awake at 4 am on the other side of the world, clutching my stomach in some of the worst pain I've ever felt.  Stupid Malaria.  It was just yesterday that I lived out of a backpack and dreamed about the day that I would be able to hug my family and walk the fresh earth of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  It was just yesterday, right?  

The passing of time is probably the most painful part of living, loving and leaving.  I replay important moments over and over in my head, trying to make sure I remember every beautiful detail of Africa that intoxicated me.  But then memories fade, I forget the sound of laughter that rings out from the people I love.  I forget conversations that deeply changed who I am.  And I also forget how thirsty I was at times, or how spiritually drained and broken I felt.  I forget the romance lost.  Time passes, and I try to become normal again.  I attempt to accept that forgetting and remembering are both parts of living, loving and leaving.  And I do.  

But that doesn't mean that I know how to be okay with missing my boys growing up.  I accept that I can't relive the past, and I don't want to.  There's no point in wasting the present.  But I'm addicted to dreams for the future, I'm addicted to hope.   I get lost in my desire to be involved in the lives of little ones who will one day be as big as me, and one day might feel for someone what I feel for them.  I cherish the thought that they have their whole lives ahead of them, and I just want to be there to make sure that someone is loving them the whole way through.  

This is the first time in my life that I don't have a plan.  I'm not in control.  I don't know how to trust my Father to protect them, to keep their innocence and their resolve.  I don't know how to balance feeling like a mom and being a 20-year-old college student.  To be honest, those two parts of me get into fist fights every day.  Each one competes for air, to dominate my thoughts and my actions.   

But what can I do?  

I can keep living.  I can accept that love blindsided me this summer and I can thank God that my heart bleeds.  I wouldn't ever go back to who I was before May 13th, 2013.  I can only go forward and walk into new adventures.  I am captivated by love.  

So, to all the mothers out there who can hold their babies tonight, hold them a little tighter.  Be patient and understanding and let them know in everything you do that they are your joy.  


And to all the mothers that can't, know that we're all in it together.  Rest in the promise that there's a Father who has arms big enough to hold all the little ones that we can't reach.  Trust Him.  

"How amazing is it that God designed water to flow from our eyes, and with that release of liquid we release such deep emotion.  Anger, fear and sorrow.  How amazing is it..." my mom said, as she stroked my back and held me while I cried.  I cried for so many different reasons, the majority of which are running around in Africa right now, being little boys.  I cry because I miss my boys.  

Have you ever cried so hard that you think you're never going to stop?  Your stomach hurts and your soul feels such a deep pain that you have a new understanding of the term "heartache."  The muscles around your eyebrows are tired and the only thing you want to do is sit in a hot shower for thirty minutes and let your tears get lost down the drain with all the other drops.  That is, if you're over-privileged enough to have access to running water, let alone hot running water.  Have you ever cried so hard that your body can't function right and your eyelids threaten to quit your face?  

I hope you have.  I hope you love someone to the point that you break when they hurt or are separated from you by an ocean, or by death.  I hope you are passionate enough for something you believe in that you crumble when it fails.  I hope you fall apart every once in a while.  God knows I do.  

Last night I cried harder than I have in a long time.  Every time I open my computer, there is a higher death count.  I was in Nairobi less than a month and a half ago.  It was the end of Ramadan.  Emma and I had just traveled for a week from South Sudan to Uganda to Kenya.  Over borders on foot and by plane.  I met so many beautiful Muslims who were fasting the whole day.  We rode in a taxi and I offered food to the guy sitting in the trunk, and he smiled politely and said he was fasting for God, he couldn't eat.  We got to a tiny town in Northern Uganda called Arua, made up of 60% Muslims.  I awoke to the call to prayer every morning, and it brought me to think about God and all his children who were praying as I laid in my bed.  And I prayed, too.  

Not once during my travels did I see hatred.  In fact, one of the best days of the summer and of my life was my reunion with Hamzah, the beautiful boy I sponsor.  Last year I met him in Uganda and he became my little brother.  When I left I didn't know if I would ever see him again.  13 months later, I walked up a dirt path and came through some trees to see that same boy sitting on a bench outside his mother's hut, studying.  He looked up when he heard my footsteps and dropped his book on the ground as he catapulted off the bench and sprinted into my arms.  I will never forget that day, and that I love him.  Muslim and Christian.  Brother and Sister.  

My heart breaks for the victims in Nairobi, to all who lost their lives or were injured.  My heart breaks for their families.  My heart breaks for all of the Muslims that have to stand by while terrorists defile the name of their religion and destroy human life.  

Today I reach my broken heart out to everyone in Kenya, a country I love dearly.  Kenyans are some of the most amazing people I have ever met.  They are my brothers and my sisters, a part of who I am.  And I refuse to fear Islam, I will only give love and friendship.  If I am hateful or scared, that means I have been defeated.  I long for a day when religion is no longer divisive.  But that day can only come if I start with my own heart.  So to all my amazing Muslim friends and the Muslims I have not met, know that I love you.  

And love will always win.  Kenya strong.  

I've been home from Africa for one month, one week and two days.  I don't know how that happened.  I don't know when I stopped being a victim of jet-lag and when I started becoming comfortable with getting water from a faucet or food from a grocery store that I can drive to. And I don't know when I started getting used to these new mountains.    

The past month in my tiny town of Boone, NC has been crazy.  I've cried a lot, laughed a lot, cried some more and learned so much about myself that I'm tired of thinking.  But one thing that I've realized since I've been home is that being present and living vibrantly is imperative to being happy.  Also, serving other people.  In every moment that you have the opportunity, serve.  

Earlier this week I was coming home from my women's group, thinking to myself that I didn't want to be in the United States anymore.  I didn't want to be in South Sudan either because that was quite a thirsty time in my life and I wanted to be close to my family and be able to take showers and not wear skirts.  I wanted it all.  I wanted comfort, but I also wanted some type of clear purpose.  In my heart I felt that neither Boone nor Wadupe could give me all of that.      

It was really dark outside.  I live on a poorly lit street, and as I was turning onto my road somebody yelled, "STOP!"  I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road only to see that there was a guy who had wiped out on his skate board in the middle of the road, afraid that I was going to run over him.  His backpack and skateboard and phone were scattered everywhere.  His elbow was bleeding really bad and it was filled with gravel.   He was about to break into tears.  I got out of my car and asked him what happened and if I could take him to the hospital.  Then the poor guy got up and clutched his arm as a pool of blood started filling the palm of his hand.  

"No," he responded.  "But could you take me home?"  

So we piled his skateboard, his backpack and his bleeding self into my gold minivan, also known as Chariot of Fire or Burns Mobile, and went on our way.  He tried to make small talk in the car while simultaneously trying not to bleed everywhere or cry.  I felt so bad for him.  When we got to his house, he couldn't even open his door, or carry any stuff.  He had to drop-kick his pride and let me do everything for him.  So I walked him to his house and explained to his roommates what happened as he began the painful venture of washing his wounds.  

And then I went home, shocked that I had nearly avoided killing someone and got a serious reality check.  I still can't believe that just minutes before I was complaining about not knowing how to help people in the United States, not knowing what my place was here.  I was lost in my own self-pity and mourning for times past when I felt needed.  And just like that, skateboard man fell from the sky.  He needed me to help him, but in reality I think he helped me the most. Geography doesn't define my purpose, or yours.  

Serve people.  In every opportunity you have.  Love people well, even when you don't want to.  Seek out the broken, the hopeless and the weary.  And in those moments you will realize your own broken, weary and hopeless heart, and it will begin to heal.  

So, I think I have a story to tell.  I don't know who it belongs to.  Maybe it's mine, maybe it's theirs, maybe it's yours.  Mostly, I think it's ours.  You donated.  You prayed.  I went.  And we loved each other.  I loved people harder than I thought I could, and they loved me so well that I broke into little pieces and gave parts of my heart away.  Big parts.  Bigger than I could imagine until I came back to America and realized I wasn't going to wake up and say good morning to Susan, or drink tea with Gerald, or laugh with Peter and Christine, or cook Chapatis with Mama Evelyn, or go to Hamuza's house for Posho and Beans, or listen to Kijabe tell his stories, or feed our pet monkey, or give Boy and Diko hugs and kisses every time I saw them.  I don't deserve the love I received over the past 84 days, and I think I'm still trying to process it.  But, I think have a story to tell.  

So here's a little bit of it.  

On May 12th, I said "goodbye" to my family and embarked on the biggest journey of my lifetime...so far.    I set out with a single backpack and a lot of prayers and just went.  I didn't go through an organization or a specific charity, I just went.  I spent 21 days in Kenya, 28 days in Uganda, 34 days in South Sudan, and 4 hours throwing up in the Rwanda Airport.  And it was the hardest thing I've ever done.  I got Malaria, a staph infection and some unknown parasites that have made me bond with doctors and bathrooms (TMI?  TIA.).   "What happened then?" you ask.  Well, in Africa they say that my once small heart grew three sizes this summer (grinch reference).   And it was the best, most joy filled and life defining experience I could have ever dreamed of.  


I've written about Kenya and Uganda in my previous blog posts, although looking back through them I've realized that it was impossible for me to even scratch the surface of everything that happened.  But for now, it will have to do.  This post is dedicated to South Sudan, the country that knocked me down, beat me up and then brought me back to life all at the same time.  There is an interesting relationship between me and the baby country of South Sudan, I must say.  On the one hand I didn't appreciate Malaria, having mice as roommates, taking 9 hours to drive 70 miles because our driver had never actually driven a car before, smelling like Adolf Hitler's conscience, undergoing constant spiritual and physical exhaustion, or washing my body/dishes/clothes in the same basin Emma and I threw up in multiple times each at three a.m (sorry Billy and Allie, bad things happened.  A lot.  Especially in East Africa when you sometimes accidentally drink the water before sterilizing it...).  On the other hand, none of that mattered because I met two little boys who made me forget my weak diva-self every time they showed up to play.  


Meet Boy and Diko, the highlight of my summer.  

I don't have words to express how much these two little kids mean to me, and I have even fewer words to express how it feels to wake up and be thousands of miles away from them.  All I can say is that whenever I was with them, I felt so alive.  They radiate joy and adventure and acceptance and most of all, life.  They are like the Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Fin of South Sudan.  I feel like they should have their own theme song or adventure show.  And I feel like Boy should have parents.  But they don't, and he doesn't.  They just have each other and their gang of friends and siblings that are tough as nails yet easier to love than a puppy who can't walk up the stairs cause his legs are too small.    

Diko is one of the toughest kids I've ever met.  He's not afraid of anything.  He runs almost everywhere he goes, has the biggest smile, is constantly sweating on his little nose, dives into elephant grass to catch the end of the fleeting goat rope when most people (like me) tip-toe for fear of tiny snakes called COBRAS, and is the first and last one at the library reading with Emma even though he has dyslexia.  He is seven and his playground is banana tree forests, coffee fields and the rural heart of South Sudan.  And his best friend is Boy.  

Boy stole my heart the minute he opened his little mouth, cocked his chin to one side and let out the best laugh I have ever heard.  Right then at that first moment I knew I never wanted to say goodbye.  I just wanted to be his neighbor forever and grow up all over again with him.  Boy never stops dancing.  I mean, never.  I don't have one single picture of him standing still because every time I pulled out my camera he started shaking his hips and waving his hands in the air like a little African Elvis.  Spending even ten minutes with him made me forget that he was an orphan or that he was poor, according to leading experts on poverty.  I think I forgot so easily because where there is a lack of biological parents there is an abundance of people who love him more than he may ever know, more than we even know ourselves.  To an outsider who only has the opportunity to read about Boy's life, they would probably say that his life is a tragedy, that the world is against him.  But to someone who has spent even just a few moments in his presence they would know the truth -- that God is bigger than the world and choosing joy beats tragedy any day.  8-year-old Boy taught me more in 5 weeks of playing under the African sky than 14 years of sitting in a classroom.  He taught me how to live and how to dance to his song.  

I lived life with these kids for 5 weeks and slowly the hardest place for me to go became the hardest place for me to leave.  I have two brothers who live in South Sudan now.  Two brothers who are running through the coffee fields every day.  Two brothers who are learning to read and write, even if sometimes Diko makes his d's into p's and Boy drops his book and starts dancing.  Two brothers who look into the same stars I do and pray there is someone looking back.  

But now my two brothers and I are separated by an ocean.  And it's okay because what began as the adventures of Maddy turned into the adventures of Boy and Diko and Maddy.  The plot has thickened, and the title of the next chapter is this: Return.  
I love you, Boy and Diko.  

I don’t even really know where to begin. South Sudan has rocked my world and changed me in so many ways. This is a difficult place, so I now understand why not many foreign people have come here. To go to South Sudan…and stay here, you really have to want to be here. Some days you get hassled by the SPLA and other days you walk into your hut and there’s a chicken sitting on your bed (that was a first, haha). It’s much easier going to Kenya and Uganda, places where Americans and other western cultures have been for decades. But to come to South Sudan you have to understand that living in a hut in the middle of a village, deep in the overgrown bush that used to be booming coffee farmlands is far from easy. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. 

Wadupe, South Sudan is a tiny village of 6,000 people that have endured some of the most difficult circumstances in the world. They have been through two civil wars, migrated to Uganda and D.R.C. and lived as refugees as a result, and come back to Wadupe after South Sudan gained independence only to find their once prosperous and lucrative coffee farms have now turned into overgrown bush that has soaked up blood from SPLA soldiers and people fighting in the war. And that’s just the beginning. 

The spiritual atmosphere in this tiny little place is so heavy, so dark that words don’t adequately describe what it’s like. Every move I make here brings unprecedented waves of exhaustion. I have no passion, not even for Africa. All the dreams I have for my future seem impossible…why even try if I’m probably just going to fail? Most days seem gray and my thoughts turn from finding joy in every moment to longing for the comfortable life I left behind in America. And that’s not the worst part at all. There are so many stories I’ve heard that I don’t want to write down because I don’t want to exploit the people I’ve grown to love by telling their stories, so you’ll just have to trust me when I say no human being should go through what these men, women and children have endured. It’s inhumane. Unimaginable. What a perfect spiritual atmosphere Satan has created for the people of a country that just celebrated two years of independence…

Those are the lies spoken into my life every day that I have to fight against. Slowly, I’m realizing that it’s not just this place that makes my heart sink. The father of all lies uses discouragement everywhere to turn people away from God. Just think about it. God asks us to dream big, and to ask him to be a big God and use us to do great things, as long as what we are asking doesn’t contradict his peaceful nature. But Satan does everything he can to intercept our dreams about our futures and he tries to replace them with anxiety, depression and discouragement. And what does that do? It paralyzes us, right where we are. We can’t sleep, we can’t love our friends and families well, and we can’t lead joyful lives that bless other people. All we can do is wallow in an intoxicating spirit of brokenness. 

Not once in the Bible does God call us to be broken. Instead, he tells us that we are his chosen people. He is the artist and we are his masterpieces, meant for greatness in his glorious name. We are called to be sanctified, to be made holy and to regain the beautiful image of our creator. We are called to be joyful. That is the destiny of every single person who walks on this earth. But how could there be a God who lets bad things happen to his people, you might ask? Believe me, with every story about suicides, rapes and war that I’ve heard along this journey, I have asked myself the same question, only to come finally to this answer: God doesn’t desire suffering for us, he desires holiness and he desires us to turn toward his love. But we have a choice, we can turn toward it or we can cloak ourselves in darkness. When God’s people cloak themselves in darkness instead of walking into His light, evil manifests itself in ways that are sometimes incomprehensible. A little bit of faith in times when you don’t understand anything that you are seeing or experiencing can sustain you for the darkness in our world, I can guarantee it. 

Before I came on this journey, I thought I understood this continent. I was prideful, and people identified me as the girl who loves Africa. I was naive and immature in my understanding of mission work, and though there were hundreds of other people who are much more qualified than me to backpack around Africa for three months, God honored the life I was choosing and blessed my dreams and told me very clearly he would provide wherever I went. And that’s just it…we have free will. God designed us to choose what we do with our life. I could have followed God in the United States, or here to Africa. Neither choice is more pleasing to God. What’s pleasing to Him is that we love Him above all else, and then we love our neighbor as ourselves. It doesn’t matter if our neighbor is Sudanese or if he is from Texas!

God desires first for us to seek His kingdom and to live righteously. If we do that and commit ourselves to turning toward our creator instead of from him, then the possibilities for joy and for hope are infinitely greater as we make this pilgrimage called life. So lay down your anxiety about the future. Lay you’re your discouragement and your worry. Walk in the promise that the Creator has made to us as he says:

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of theses. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you - you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying ‘what will we eat?’ or ‘what will we drink?’ or ‘what will we wear?’ For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” – Matthew 6:25-34

We are halfway through this adventure of a lifetime. So much has happened since I left home on May 12th, so much of me has changed. We have been all over Kenya and Uganda, and I can truly say that I have met some of the most amazing people in the world. Right now, I find myself sitting at a coffee shop in Gulu, Uganda. This is the town where the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) originated. I have wanted to come to this place since I was 13, and it’s absolutely surreal that I am here. Ten years ago, I could easily have died walking these streets. But now I walk them with hope and confidence in what the Lord has done here. 

Some days here I have really been able to see the lingering effects of war on this town. At Mass on Sunday there was a woman with scars and disfigurement on her face from what I assume to be a machete wound. There are people walking through town with limps and wounds that never healed. There are street children all through town. Four or five out of every ten people here are infected with HIV. There is physical poverty everywhere. Families have been torn apart. 

But oh, the joy. The healing. The spiritual richness. 

I’ve worked with Invisible Children for so many years, but it wasn’t until I came to Gulu that I finally got it. I will never know what it’s like to grow up without a childhood, or go to sleep wondering when the rebels will take me to be a sex slave or child soldier. But I have heard the stories from people who lived through it. Every time I talk to someone about what Kony and the rebels did, they get a distant look on their faces as if they are reliving the nightmare. They say that the violence was completely unimaginable, inhumane. Entire generations were lost to war. 

But I sit here in this coffee shop, and I think to myself that even though Satan planted his demons in this town 25 years ago, the Lord fought back. God did not abandon this place. He never took his hand away. This town was so dark for so many years, but now it is one of the most vibrant places I have ever been. There is life here that has come up out of the ashes. Gulu is falling in love with Jesus, and Jesus has forever been in love with Gulu. 

The Acholi people are the most hospitable, joyful and life-filled people I have ever had the honor to meet. I have never been loved so well by complete strangers. I have never been called daughter by people who truly consider me so, even though I am not their own flesh and blood. I have never fallen in love so fast. I have never been so moved…

If God can turn mourning into dancing here, he can do it for you. There is nothing too big for God. There is no night too dark, no spirit too broken, no life too asleep that can’t be woken up to true and everlasting life. Miracles are real, I am walking down the streets of one today.

                                                                         -----

Matthew 28:20 - And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.

God is faithful. 

In six days, we will be returning to Africa.  It's been a long eight months planning this adventure, and there have been many ups and downs and periods of disbelief followed by gifts of affirmation.  But today, Emma and I have been struck by one thing that has remained constant throughout this process--God is always faithful.  Even in the times when we think he's let us down or abandoned our dreams, he leads us out of the darkness to realize he was always there, and his angels are orchestrating everything that has happened and will happen during those 84 days.  

In that event, I am going to talk about some real stuff on this blog today.  No more beating around the bush.  

What a lot of Americans and Westerners don't understand is that the spiritual climates of many regions in Africa, and all over the world, can be very dark.   I know I didn't understand the reality of this until about a month ago.  Evil manifests itself in different ways in the United States: in greed, lust, sloth....the list goes on.  It even manifests itself in pushing people to believe that the supernatural world is not real.  
 
But out in the bush during the darkest parts of night, evil lurks with the intention of intimidating and terrifying all those who are seeking light, love and truth.  Evil wishes for people to live in darkness, in sin.  This world, my friends, is a battle for souls.  We were born into a war zone.  But, God is always victorious because he has a weapon that the eternal enemy cannot posses, and that is love.  Jesus won the war 2000 years ago; our souls belong to him, and only he can breathe eternal life.  

When I first realized that I would be facing witch doctors and truly dark spirits this summer, I shriveled up in fear.  I felt like a little girl again, afraid of the night and calling for my mom to rescue me from the monsters under my bed.  I can honestly say that I have felt some pretty tangible fear in the past week.  At first, I was ashamed of my childlike disposition, until I realized that's exactly how I am supposed to be handling this warfare.  It's not that the Lord is calling me to have a spirit of fear, it's that he is calling me to be his little daughter, in desperate need of only his protection.  All I have to do is call upon the name of Jesus and my enemies must flee.  Phillipians 2:10 says that at the name of Jesus, every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth.  

This week I learned to believe that there is power in the name of Jesus.  For the Lord tells me in Ephesians 6 that in all circumstances, hold faith as a shield to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one.  And take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.  

And so I will put on that armor.  Though most people think we have no business going to East Africa, let alone South Sudan, we will hold fast to the promises that God has made for us, his daughters.  We will endure attacks from the enemy if it is his will, and in those moments of darkness we will call upon the name of Jesus and everything before us must bow to the King whose only weapon is love. 

"The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still." Exodus 14:14

For Mom and Dad...

Though I will forever be proud to be an American and I love my country dearly, I have noticed something about the character of our nation.  American culture wants everything, and we want everything right now, here, immediately in this moment.  I am a victim to this mindset every day, we all are.  

Does that affect the decisions we make on a regular basis, or the signs that we expect the God of the universe to send us so that we make the right life choices?  The answer is unequivocally, yes.  Absolutely.  We are a demanding people.   We are a people easily distracted by the next shiny opportunity, and a people even more easily disappointed by not getting what we want, when we want it.

And I am the essence of that imperfection.  

In August of 2012 after I had spent almost two months home from my first trip to Uganda, I became infected with anxiety and depression.  I was restless, irrational and unable to think critically or clearly about where my life was going and the important steps I needed to take to fulfill my calling and purpose on this earth.  I thought seriously about dropping out of school, and even woke my parents up in the middle of the night to tell them that I had to move back to Uganda immediately (that was a fun conversation).  My life was chaotic because I wouldn't allow my mind to shut up for five seconds so I could listen to what God was whispering to me in the quiet.  I was angry at him, and I wanted him to write something clear and bright in the sky.  I wanted answers, directions.  And I wanted them now.  

I didn't get any answers, because I refused to listen.  

But God is ultimately victorious, and he can break the most stubborn and angry people.  I know this because I was that person.  I couldn't see the gifts he had placed in front of me.  I didn't recognize how much my family loved me, or how unbelievably lucky I was to attend a university in one of the most beautiful regions in the country, surrounded by an even more beautiful community of people.  Instead, I idolized being an "African Missionary" and came up with my own idea of what that was supposed to look like.  I thought that dropping my entire life, my family and friends and picking up to move without a plan was what I had to do.  You'd be surprised to know that most of the time, life just doesn't work out that way... 

So after weeks of fighting with my family and causing a lot of pain, I decided to go back to school to take a little time to breathe.  I started listening, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  The Holy Spirit began pressing on my heart that East Africa was not my destiny.  God shattered the image I had painted for my life, and tore my security away from me as I realized how my identity lay in a suffocating image of living a life that was ultimately based on guilt.  I felt guilty for being American, for being born into this precious life.  

Once I realized this and let my self-proclaimed identity die, life began to change.  It wasn't about pouring myself into the lives of the beautiful people I met last summer or thinking that I had anything to offer them, because I don't.  I have nothing to give from myself.  But there's a guy who does, and his name is Jesus.  And he changed my heart once I was willing to walk into the great unknown.  

I began praying for surrender, that the Lord would take my heart and press his desires upon it.  And boy, he did.  Once I had come to an understanding that he was my destiny, things began to fall into place.  One thing after another happened, and on a rainy day in October I found myself with an intense desire to go to Kenya, Uganda and South Sudan.  I prayed that God would close these doors if they weren't the ones I was called to walk through; instead, he kept opening more.  My family struggled for months, and for a long time this adventure was the cause for many fights, confusion and pain.  It divided us, but the Holy Spirit kept whispering that he was about to, for lack of a better term, "do work."  

One by one, my family began to get used to the idea of Emma and me throwing ourselves into the Father's arms, letting him take us where we were supposed to go.  They began to like it, even, and wanted us to follow what we all finally knew to be desires from God.  It was a completely radical change of heart, a change that can only be explained by the powerful God of the universe having a quiet persistence in the heart of his beloved children.  

And now we're ready.  Tickets are booked, we leave in 48 days.  And it's scary, absolutely terrifying because we are still trying to comprehend the things that God has done for us, and all that he will ask us to do in his name.  

So, Mom and Dad, I want you to know that this is for you.  Thank you for  your blessing, and know that it is the most beautiful experience to say to the heavenly Father, "here is our daughter, we trust you with her life." 


"The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still."
Exodus 14:14

January 19th, 2013

This saturday afternoon has me thinking about one thing, and one thing only.  Doubt.  

Doubt can do so much damage.  Even though so many people have told us that they are praying for our trip, I still doubt.  Some days, I don't think that I can raise this money or that God is actually going to ask us to live out his Gospel.  
Some days I have so much fear inside me that I just want to curl up in a ball and pretend it isn't happening.  Most days, I'm scared.  But then, all it takes is one day, or one hour, or one moment when I can hear God speak to me through another person or through a song or through a feeling of peace.  All it takes is that one gift of faith to clean me up and dust me off and I'm right back in the game.  

When I think about this one life I have to live, most of the time it just makes my head hurt.  But sometimes I am graced with some clarity of thought and I remember who I am in the eyes of my God.  HE reminds me that it is not about surviving through this life.  No one can do that.  We will not live forever in this place, but our true home is more perfect than we can possibly imagine.  So why live safe?  Why be surrounded by a foam pit of comfort and man-made security while I am on this earth and deny God, the most loving father, His true desire to reveal Himself to us in spectacular ways that we can't explain?  What is intriguing about this world is that it is the only time in our eternal life that we cannot see the face of God clearly and we don't understand His wisdom or His ways.   This earth is the only time we live in darkness, and our only chance to find the joy in seeking light.  

So all you who fear, all you who are weary and who doubt that there is a God who loves you more than you know...come to the light.  Bring every imperfection, every jar of tears and every hope you have because there is a God who loves you so much that he died for you.  He fought off the enemy and he will fight for your soul because you, YOU, are more precious to Him than his own life.  That is love.  And it is for you.  

"The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still"
Exodus 14:14