Month: July 2014

south austin dreaming

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Last week, one of our best friends, Gregg, came over to hang out. It was a simple affair- just me, Taylor and Gregg around our kitchen table talking for 2 hours. Over the past year, really the past 6 months, Gregg has become more like family to us. He lives 10 minutes down the street, watches Rio when we’re out of town, and there’s a decent chance that we’re at each others houses on a Tuesday night.

The conversation this Tuesday ranged from friends, to the Texas border, to hunting and fishing, to plans for Labor Day and New Year’s Eve, and then rested for a while on dreams and our neighborhood. Gregg heads up a ministry for middle and high school students in South Austin called Young Life (YL). Taylor and I grew up going to YL in high school and for both of us, our YL leaders were incredible examples and mentors. My YL leader, Katie, taught me what it looked like to live out a relationship with Jesus. In college, we volunteered as leaders at high schools in Austin, and served as backpacking guides at Wilderness Ranch, one of YL’s summer camps. Needless to say, YL is in our blood, and we believe in its mission.

This past spring, we were praying about a move and searching for places to live in Austin (no easy task right now). We decided to move south, largely because of a desire to support Gregg and the work God’s doing through him and South Austin YL. We didn’t just want to support from afar. We wanted to move into the neighborhood.

As Gregg shared his dreams and visions with us about growing YL, about the needs and realities of our community and possible ways to help, I was reminded that caring for people was never meant to be compartmentalized.

During my trip to India last November, Melody Murray echoed this sentiment in one of our very first conversations. Her business, JOYN, gives jobs to some of the most marginalized people groups in India. They have community, good pay, and learn job skills. That could’ve been enough. But then, she helped one of her employees Karma be reunited with her son, Sonam. She started a micro loan program so her employees could have an opportunity to buy their own transportation. She’s worked with doctors to find treatments so that Raju, who currently doesn’t have use of his legs due to polio, can walk one day. When asked why she goes out of her way, why she goes above and beyond to help these people, she responds with “These people are my family. Why wouldn’t I help them? When you love someone, this is what you do.”

It was a blessing to hear Gregg talk about his same approach in loving kids and their families in South Austin. To hear that for him, YL isn’t just about getting kids to come to an event on a Monday night. It’s about also helping them find places to live, get occupational training or medical care they need, about showing up when their homes are destroyed by floods. It’s about holistic care. It’s about the whole person- body, mind, heart and soul- not just about one or the other. Because loving someone isn’t saying “I’ll tell you about Jesus, but that glaring physical, tangible problem you have? Can’t help you with that.” Jesus didn’t tell the blind man the good news, and then walk away without healing his sight. He didn’t give grace to the bleeding woman without healing her bleeding. Jesus healed her physical ailment first.

I was reminded that people who need help don’t just live in India or Africa. They are not across the ocean or in a different country. They live right down the street. Literally. No matter where you live, there are people who are hurting and struggling. In some neighborhoods, it might look like a burden of financial debt or divorce or addictions. In others, it might look like not knowing where you’re going to sleep that night, or if you have enough money for dinner.

I’ve lived in Austin for close to 8 years now. I think when you live somewhere for a while, when things become routine and normal, it can become hard to really see. To really see places and people, to see what’s actually going on beneath the surface. I feel that especially in a city like Austin. Everyone hears about our celebrity chefs, great musicians and a new festival every weekend, but not as much about our sizable homeless population, people living below the poverty line, gentrification, segregation, abuse, drunk driving, sex trafficking and orphans. These things are real, and they are happening in our city.

Last Tuesday night reminded me of all of that. It reminded me that we were put here for a purpose, that we have the ability to bring hope and restoration to dark places because of Jesus. That if we look at Jesus’ life and how he tells us to live, this is our response: To see. To engage. To be present. To love.

in-progress masterpiece

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I recently finished Emily Freeman’s A Million Little Ways, and I loved everything about it.

If you long to live a life with purpose, read this book. If you’re afraid that your life doesn’t have a purpose, then even more so, this book is for you. If you’ve bought into the world’s attitude that productivity is king, again, read this book. Really, if you are a human and love beauty and wonderful, personal writing, then chances are you’ll enjoy this book.

I am all of the people I just described above. My deepest fear is I would live a life that does not matter. I long to live a life that is deep, full, and meaningful. And Emily’s book shattered all of my preconceived notions on what a life like that truly entails.

She writes from a belief that because we were created in the image of the Creator, we are all creators ourselves. She equates our life to a masterpiece, a poem that the Creator is writing line by line. And even the everyday, normal rhythms of our life have a place in this poem. More so, the beauty of the poem is in the everyday rhythms and doings of our days.

And this, this idea that our life is a masterpiece, a work of art that is constantly in progress, that’s where God began wrecking my ways of thinking about life.

You see, I’m a list person. I wake up and before my feet hit the floor I’ve begun making a running tab of what I have going on that day, and what I’d like to get done. The first thing I do when I get to my office in the morning is make a to-do list. Lists are how I stay focused on tasks. To be sure, they are helpful at work, or when I’m running errands. But, I’ve come to notice something different in myself lately. Lists have become more than a helpful tool. They are how I get through days.

If I’m feeling overwhelmed, I make a list. If I have some free time and I’m not sure how to spend it, I make a list of all the things I could do. Lists are comforting, they calm chaos, they give me control, they are concrete, they leave little room for nuance and the unknown, and (this is the key) I can cross them off. As I was reading about living life as a poem, an unfinished work of art, that idea slowly began butting heads with my love for lists, which is really a love of productivity. Because to be honest, I’ve been wearing around checked-off lists like a badge of honor. Look at me! How productive I am! I matter! Oh, and those lists that don’t get checked-off? Filed away in the drawer of shame. Push those away, I don’t want to think about them because a list that isn’t completely taken care of must prove that I am not enough.

Checklists have become more than simply a tool to actually help me focus once in a while. They’ve become one of the ways I measure my worth. I have been living life like it’s one giant checklist, and I’m coming to think that’s not the healthiest way for me to live.

For example, my life checklist will often look like this: pay off debt, write a book, write full-time, live in another country, start a fly-fishing/outdoor ministry/ backpacking business with Taylor, and so on. Nothing on that list is bad, but here’s the problem: behind each item on that list, there are about 1,000 other items. To go with the analogy, each one of those items is its own checklist.

More than that, those things aren’t cold, concrete, shallow items. They are dreams. And surely they will form and take shape and mold over the years. In my mind, checklists don’t allow for nuance. They don’t allow for grey area, or true depth. It’s black and white, you got it done or you didn’t. They don’t take into account the journey, the process, which may be the most important part of it all anyway.

One of my good friends, John, is an artist. When he paints, the white canvas doesn’t drastically change into a finished, clear picture right away. He mixes the colors, working to get them just right. And then, he begins painting shapes. He’s not worried about details at this point, and when he’s done with this stage it can often look like he forgot something. The canvas is left blurry, no sharp edges, no clear distinction on what it is he’s painting. But it’s ok. It’s all in the process. Over time, he fills in lighting and detail. The picture begins to take more shape, become more clear. Sometimes it doesn’t end up the way he originally envisioned it, but it’s a masterpiece nonetheless.

If I only saw a blank canvas one day, and finished painting the next, it wouldn’t make sense to me how John got there. I missed the process. I missed mixing colors and being ok with the uncertainty of blurry shapes and the slow, tedious work of filling in detail. The process allows for growth, for freedom, for change, for depth. In the process, things don’t always make sense. They definitely aren’t black and white. But they all work together to form one complete piece of art.

And such is life.

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P.S. If you like what you see from John, some of his art is available on his etsy shop here.

oceans of grace

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The shore is waking up this morning… or rather, I am waking up to it.

The sun is already high in the sky, having done the morning work of rising some three hours ago, and is putting on an absolute show: reflecting glittering rays of light across the water’s surface, and warming my skin just enough so the cool northern sea breeze doesn’t make me shiver.

The seagulls glide above the water, their wings stretched out and still as they allow that cool northern sea breeze to carry them wherever it pleases. Their strong wings only flapping when absolutely necessary, they make flying look effortless and it makes me wonder what the world looks like from their view.

The sand, soft and warm, cradles my feet as it conforms to the shape of my toes and heels, and I never want to walk on concrete again.

And then, the ocean. My eyes stretch to the horizon, and I wonder what Spaniards are doing right now. They feel so close- only this body of water separates us- and then I remember this body of water is Atlantic, and the grandeur of the ocean overwhelms. I look out to the horizon and it’s glass- silvery and smooth. My eyes follow the glass toward the shore, and all of a sudden I am in rolling hills as the water transforms and rhythmically rises and falls. It’s gentle, gradual, soft, graceful.

I’m jerked to attention by a crash. My eyes lock where sea meets land as I watch the hills transform into a sharp crescent moon and then dive head first into the ground, foaming with white bubbles. I brace myself as the foam roars at me, trying to hold my ground as the wave collides with my legs. I take a step back to steady myself, and then turn to see how far the wave stretches. It is stopped a few feet past me, and as it slides back into itself, attempting to persuade me to come with it, I think,

All is grace.

At the same time, the ocean is powerful enough to knock me over and kind enough to let me float in its rolling hills. It’s big enough to connect countries and cultures, and personal enough to speak to me on this morning. Unleashed it could destroy everything in its path with rushing water. Harnessed it’s safe to swim in and enjoy. In the same moment, the ocean is completely powerful and completely gracious.

And then I think, isn’t that just like its Creator?

If the waves were let loose, I am no match for His power. Yet, in his love, he tells the waves “you can go this far and no further.” Some days, the waves feel like they’re on a mission to knock me down and hold me under. They crash and crash, relentless pounding. And just when I start to lose hope, my helplessness in the face of real power made clear, I feel the same waves lift me up and cradle me in their rolling embrace. And I hear Him say, this is grace.

Other days, the waves are gentle and inviting. “Come and see,” they say, “Embrace our mystery, plunge into our depth, wonder and enjoy.” And the calm unknown reminds me of my smallness. I think if the ocean is this big its Creator must be bigger. He must be big enough. Big enough to handle my thoughts and fears and dreams and emotions. And I hear Him say, this is grace too.

Where there should be destruction, there is rescue. Where relentless power could prevail, there is wisdom. When we can’t comprehend, there is trust. When we have reached our limit, the waves are told to go no further. Where the Creator is, there is love.

And all is grace.