...of loving them and being loved by them.

Remember that time I had a great desire to blog again? Remember when I blogged once over a 4 month span? Again, I find it preposterous that anyone would care to hear what this [mess of a] girl would have to say. I don’t pride myself on knowing the ins and outs of theological discussions, or even knowing where I confidently stand on all of them… I’m just a girl trying to pour myself out for my God, and, in doing so, trying to make Him facepalm less and less each day. I spend a lot of my time falling flat on my face, but I’m thankful that my weakness[es] only further highlight my desperate need for a Savior.

And I love the art of Story. I am in awe of the way the Master Storyteller weaves us all into The Story and how it can so intricately glorify Him – even [especially] in the chapters laced with brokenness.
Broken people inspire me… and that’s good, because many people I know are broken right now.

 It’s been 4 years [this month] since I met them. These people that would soon become my family. They kiss me square on the lips when I give them the side of my face. People who run after my car as I’m leaving, shouting and waving their goodbyes. People who “squeeze hug” me so tight that I can barely breathe. People who teach me Swahili, and try to stifle their giggles as I butcher their language. People who are forgotten and mostly even unknown by the rest of the world. Some were college professors in Africa, who speak 6 languages, who were Pastors to 3000… who are now unemployed, struggling to survive in the assumed “Promised Land” that is [was] America.

 “Ayleesabit. America no good. White people – they come. And they go. Come and go.”

I often hear things like, “Elizabeth, what an amazing thing you’re doing for these people. You are saving their lives!” “Extra jewels in your crown!” “Wow, how do you find the time?!”

 And, yes… those comments are meant to be encouraging, but most of the time, they make me ache.

 No... These people saved my life. 

 No... My reward is bringing glory to Him. 

 How could I not find the time? I need them more than they need me.

 Lately, I’ve been having these “aha” moments in the middle of spending time with them.

I’ll be sitting in a living room, surrounded by friends that barely speak my language. We laugh [mostly they laugh at me]. And we worship. We worship the God that saves, the God that delivered them, redeemed them, and the God that is still in the business of delivering and redeeming [all].

 Sometimes, I’ll be making my rounds… visiting families, going door to door… and I’ll stumble upon a room full of Burundi women on their knees. And we pray. And I cry.

I cry because I realize, “I GET to be here!” I can't believe this life I get to live and the people that I get to know.

 I get the privilege of knowing them. I get the privilege of celebrating with them. I get the privilege of mourning with them. I get the privilege of holding and weeping with a new mama that just lost her 3-month old. I get the privilege of going to G.E.D. graduations for the 40 year old Father who is trying to make a better life for his family. I get the privilege of running-start tackle hugs by the children. I get the privilege of pounding fufu and cassava until my arms are sore. I get the privilege of loving them and being loved by them.

I accidentally took on the role of "Angry Jesus".

"Eli... I'm just sayin', satan is soooooo happy with where you are right now."

...are words I never want to hear again. And when my friend said that, it felt as though the breath was knocked right out of me. My friend was right. 

Jaded. 

Frustrated. 

Overwhelmed. 

Hurt. 

It was as if I woke up one morning and I emobidied these 4 words. A permanent scowl on my face and Amos 5 on a continuous loop in my head. I hate all your show. I hate your noisy clanging symbols -- just show me justice. 

I took on the role of "angry Jesus" flipping over tables [proverbially] but I really didn't look like Jesus at all. I looked like a girl that was hurt and chose to check out completely. Then a sudden death in my family happened and I went deeper and deeper into "checked out" mode. 

A pastor friend (out of state) challenged me about a month ago to start figuring out what my "legacy" or "fingerprint on Dallas" looks like. In what ways will I bring healing and deliverance and love to my city? It won't be through my jadedness or angry tears. I can't fix His broken Church. I can't make everyone take off their Sunday morning masks and have a weep-fest over our sin and brokenness with me. I can't force people to care about each other. 

Instead of being bummed that people aren't caring for one another, I can care for you. And I can weep with you about our sin and brokenness. I can remove my Sunday morning mask so maybe you might feel freedom to do the same. 

From now on, our conversations won't end in how I'm "bummed out by the Church" and will start being about the  beauty and love and mercy He's shown me through Her. 

I'm not where I ought to be, but by golly - I'm not where I was and that's enough for the moment. 

How God used McDonalds to punch me in the gut.

I abandoned this blog almost as quickly as I had commenced it – noticing my tendency to write from my pride than in humility and self awareness.

I was driving this evening and recalled a day spent with one of my [soul-]closest families. Emmanuel and his family of 5. They are home to me, and if you know me well, you might know them too. They have a story you’ll never forget; seeking asylum from tribal persecution in Burundi, Africa – which made them refugees in my backyard. Family now.

Valentine’s Day of this year, I wanted my time and love spent differently. I was burdened by my frustrations with this holiday, and wanted to pour out love in a different way than just simply romantic. While my Facebook newsfeed was page after page of red roses and sweet nothings [even the week leading up to the fourteenth day of February], I felt Him say “You have deep love to give. So give it.” So I asked this family on a date. All 6 of them.

Elated, I told them to pick any place they’d always dreamed of dining! "Spare no expense, I just want to serve you and treat you."

[I had it all played out in my head: buying frilly dresses for the girls, shiny shoes and linen button ups for the boys].

“Oh. Ayleeesabit. We just wahn’ hahmbrrrgrrr…”

“Oh… well. Really?! ...Okay. We’ll get the best hamburger in Dallas, then!! Yeah!”

“No… no. Ayleeesabit. Really. We only like McDonalds. And French fries! That's what we like best.”

Internally gagging at the thought of buying them a “hamburger” at McDonalds, I knew all too well that if I forced them to have what I thought was better, it would defeat the whole purpose of me loving them in this way. I'd be forcing them to do something they didn't want, even though I was certain I could find them a better hamburger.

And immediately it was a proverbial punch in the gut. I heard Jesus telling me, 

“Here, Eli. I have this [my Spirit, my love, my faithfulness] for you. This free gift – you don’t have to work for it or earn it - just receive it. I just want to give it to you because I love you. Please take it. You’ll love it, it’s sweeter than anything you’ve ever tasted!”

And my flesh replies, "No, Jesus. I know what I want. Thank you, but I'm going to choose [this] because it's what I know."

And He responds by letting me choose. Even though I mostly fall flat on my face, He lets me choose. He offers me The Way, and I choose my way most times. 

He allowed me to see, almost like a movie, how I refuse His goodness every day. How I tend to think I know what I want. He knows what’s best, and I PRAY for God’s best – but at the end of the day, am I trusting enough to receive it?

Lately, He’s been breaking my heart. It’s one thing after another these days. I find myself weeping over Africa in the middle of the night, I weep over sex trafficking, I weep over abortion, then I weep over death… the next week I’m weeping over His broken bride, and I’m weeping over my sin, and I'm weeping over dry seasons of community, then I'm weeping over the way I fail Him daily – needless to say, it feels like I’m always in my car -- Weeping. I remember calling a girlfriend, ugly crying while leaving her a voicemail, asking her why God keeps breaking my heart. I was angry. Wondered if I was just plain broken. A friend recently joked that I should wear a sign that simply says “BROKEN”.

I’m getting to the point that I’m okay with it – brokenness, all of it. Another friend encouraged me by saying, “Eli. Don’t fret. You’re weeping over everything He is weeping over. And it’s something to celebrate, not get mad at.” I pray that I might find myself in the house of mourning; not to request or to seek out tragedy, but to be alive and active in a hurting world. Mourning with those who mourn, but simultaneously celebrating with those who celebrate. 

Am I trusting enough to receive what He has for me? Or will I choose the equivalent of McDonalds?

I am a Pharisee.

I have returned like a defeated soldier, knowing myself to be incapable and weak. I have, at times, lost hope for my Beloved to cover me with His love and to rescue me. I am proud – basing my actions on what I’d rather do, not what I’m called to do.
I am not a water drinker. Think of what you need to survive. Food? Water? Air? Facebook? {ha, hear my sarcasm.} Naturally, I'm going to concentrate on water here. Water is of major importance to all living things. Each day humans must replace 2.4 litres of water.

Water is boring. I’d much rather have tea or a coke or juice, even. Something with some excitement. I’ve recently started forcing myself to chug 64oz of water in the mornings. Every day, I do it – never really desiring water, but in the realization that my body needs it to survive. After the first week, I felt so good. My skin was healthier, I had more energy – I was refreshed. And now I crave it.

I recently used this illustration with a group of ladies that have started coming over to my house to be in community and try to navigate this area of life with other likeminded believers.

Scripture. I haven’t always been the most faithful scripture reader. I wanted to be – I just didn’t know how to foster a love for His Word when I had trouble retaining information, and had no real desire to read and dwell in His Word. Sometimes I was bored with it [ouch], I didn’t understand it all, I’d zone out… I prayed that He would help me love to love it. So I partnered action with my prayer – I started reading [sometimes kicking and screaming, I’m embarrassed to say]. Reading an hour a day. Still not really retaining what I read, or understanding all of it… but as each new day arose, I found myself looking more forward to that hour with Him and His Word. It refreshes me – It encourages me. The more I read, the more I want to read. The more I read, the better I understand His love for me. The more I read His Word, the more I am broken for my sin[s] and the fact that I basically yielded the hammer that nailed Him to the cross. And still, He loves me; still, He pursues me; still, He delivers me from the tyranny of my misplaced desires; still, He calls me His child. When I spit in His face, He calls me daughter. He encourages me to die, so that I may truly live. 

I need scripture to function, I need communion with Christ to be refreshed and fully live. As my earthly body needs water, my soul needs the Living Water. 

"the kind of God he had been shown wouldn’t have me either."

I was sitting with my refugee friend {Justus} on the steps just outside of Shiloh.. about a month ago. Between puffs on his cigarette, he told me stories about his life in Burundi. Seeing the cross around my neck, he told me that he didn’t have what it took to follow my God and, like a child losing a T-Ball game, confessed that Christianity was for “perfect folks” and God wouldn’t take a screw-up like him.

I told him that the kind of God he had been shown wouldn’t have me either.

God, however, calls the clumsiest of the clumsy and believes they have what it takes to follow him.