FMF: Race

The doctor taped up my right ankle, pink and green, and I thought somehow he knew that would make me happy and please my preppy aesthetic. Later that day I taped up my left ankle with more pink tape. I continued to prepare for race day despite the agonizing pain in my stomach. Stupid ulcer. I didn't know how I'd complete 13.1 miles of the Portland half marathon in the morning, but to get the goodies I had to finish the race. It was completely foolish; my stubborn pride would not allow me to quit. I refuse to let my body keep me from doing what I want, living my life. I felt fine in the morning, and all during the race. Frequently, internally saying, "Take that you stupid ulcer! You can't keep me down!"
I finished the race.
Improved my time even.
And, I got the goodies - a pretty finishers medal, coin, pendant, and a not so pretty finishers shirt.

But I wonder, where is that same tenacity for my spiritual life? The determination to overcome the obstacles and hurdles? The perseverance to log the long hours training and building the foundation? Is my focus on the finish line, my goal on the best goodies - to hear "well done, my good and faithful servant?"

Which race am I running? Which one really matters?

{This post is part of Lisa-Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday's}

Hard Days Are Fighting Days

Some days are just hard.
It's still dark outside but the bladder will let you sleep no longer. Throwing back the blankets with annoyance, you take care of business without really opening your eyes. Wiggling back under the covers, sleep is just about to fully take hold again... and the alarm goes off. Hitting snooze leads to an arm being flung over the side of the bed - and staying there, until it starts to tingle, go numb, and the cold exposed skin wakes you too much to be ignored. Tucking the stray arm back under the covers, sleep starts to grab hold of you again. While not really awake, you rationalize that if you are this tired, you need the sleep and should maybe skip the gym just this one morning. Resetting the alarm, snuggling in for one more hour of shut-eye, suddenly you are wide awake. With a loud sigh of exasperation you throw the covers back once more, swinging legs over the side; today will not be the day to skip the gym.

It feels good to move the body, get the blood flowing, see the sweat dripping; better than sleeping one more restless hour. But the dalliance with the alarm has put your schedule off and now you are running late. While you make it in time for the train, it required bringing your make-up bag with you to apply it while riding along to work.

Stepping off the train early, choosing to walk the rest of the way to the office, it seems like it may rain making the choice questionable. An odd mix of people are passing by on the sidewalks first thing in the morning in downtown Portland. It's the crazy homeless man that spits loud and profusely on the sidewalk along Powell's Books that grabs your attention, not so much because of his looks, smell, behavior, or spitting - but because you caught yourself walking to the far side of the curb away from him. "What ugly, unloving behavior! He isn't so different than the residents at the hotel you minister at." you chide yourself with such remonstrations. And out of the blue you hear, "He's crazy, he'd probably ask you out too since it's only crazy people that have an interest in you. Well, the crazy, and the social awkward, or the scoundrel who absconded with more of you than he should have." Suddenly you are judging every man that crosses your path, many who can be 'interesting' in Old Town. But there are those few who are dressed for work, who took some care about their appearance, and don't seem to be crazy in the least; and as you check those things off, the whiny voice asks, "Why can't someone like that ask me out? What's wrong with me that only creepy Chris is interested in me?" With the tailspin starting, the ache of loneliness scourges out your insides leaving you achingly hollow. Is it the wind or the pit on the inside causing your eyes to water? No matter, they both sting. The mind wanders, back to memories with the scoundrel, and longing stirs into the mix. Not so much for the scoundrel himself, but for the connection, the togetherness and sharing of life. Walking down memory lane leads nowhere good, so you put a halt to the amble with a road sign that reads, "He REJECTED you!" Painful, but effective. Also effective at creating an opening for evil to lob their familiar arsenal:
You are unwanted!
You are unlovable!
You are defective!
You are utterly alone!
You have been forgotten by God!

Under this heavy unrelenting barrage, you buzz yourself through the front door of the office, but walls and structure provide no protection from this kind of attack. The ride in the elevator to the 7th floor is agonizing, as you want to seek refuge under the covers that were so comforting only four hours ago, you just want to hide and wallow.

Starting everything up, while programs boot, you start to get caught up on the blogosphere.
And you read this post:
The King is Enthralled By Your Beauty

Those bombs that have been exploding in your heart start to fizzle as truth starts to break through the smoke and ash.
You are loved!
You are delighted in!
You are thought beautiful!

And if you were still doubting, this blog post shows up:
beautiful you
Another cleansing sweep of Truth washes over the battlefield of your heart, reminding you that you are indeed loved, seen, known, and thought beautiful by the almighty King of kings who is always with you. He cares so much that He orchestrated two posts, using the same verse, to send His message.


Some days are hard.
Some days you just need to fight a little harder.
Fight for truth. Fight for love. Fight for healing.
And be generous with mercy and grace.

Learning to be loved by my Creator, allowing myself to be loved by myself and others, accepting that I am loved and lovable is hard work for me. I need constant reminders. On those morning walks from Jeld-Wen field to the office I keep my eye out for hearts, love notes from God to remind me on my way of whose heart I belong to and where I am kept tight.

"Hearts Abound"

Getting Right

It is May, April slipped by with a solitary post that only taunted you with the promise of more to come in the month. A broken promise. When the words wouldn't come, the sentences more fragmented than usual, the desire to write all but entirely absent - that is when I finally knew, I was heart sick. My soul in need of some serious TLC. My heart needing balm to heal.

On the outside I looked fine. I kept "keeping on" out of sheer necessity, projects at work didn't give me an option. If I allowed myself to open up and enter in to the mess, it meant I wouldn't be able to function. So I numbed myself. I buried myself in work. I obsessively read "The Hunger Games" trilogy. I watched TV and movies. I hit the gym with more frequency. I shopped. I ate. I drank (and not just copious amounts of coffee). Feeling and processing wasn't allowed, strictly verboten. Occasionally my heart wandered when the numbing started to wear off, but it only brought tears, incapacitating sorrow, unbridled anger. I didn't know - and still don't - how to delve into the muck while functioning in life. The only thing I knew to do was shut down and ignore my heart. It is awfully hard to write from the heart, about living a life of faith, learning how to live whole-heartedly, if you are silencing it.

But this can only go on for so long. I felt the fissures in my facade creeping, making their way to critical joints, the wall separating my heart from my head was about to crack. It made me nervous. Thankfully, it was also about this time that I finished my part in a major project at work. No one was waiting on me to finish something before they could start their work; I was no longer a roadblock for others. Enough time had passed since March's escapades that some vacation hours had accumulated in my time-off bank again. This meant - I could escape!! A couple weeks ago, I took an afternoon off from work and found the brackish balm that I so sorely needed. Pulling out of my driveway a few minutes after noon, I drove straight to Sleepy Monk Coffee in Cannon Beach. (It really is the best coffee and worth the drive just to pick up a bag of beans.) After stashing my bag of beans in the car, I walked across the street and found the sand and surf and started walking south. And kept walking south. Then went a little further. Finally, I had to stop as I didn't want to go for a swim to get around the bend to Hug Point Park. Most of the way I was alone, not another person in sight up or down the coastline; just me and God, walking and talking. Pouring my heart out, needing Him to show up and care for it, to rescue me, and remind me just who I am.

And God did show up.
As I pronounced myself wretched, sinful, rebellious, and unworthy of love, Jesus said, 'No. You are redeemed, forgiven, and not only worthy of love, but you are loved.'


Presenting the 'evidence' of my single, solitary, lonely aloneness as proof of my unloveableness. God refutes me, and reminds me that I am loved. Deeply. Beyond measure. And I am not alone, not ever, that I am part of a much larger family. A community that loves me, if I would allow them.


Ranting and whining about recent events of the past six months, questioning God's goodness, wanting to know why I am being punished. The Lord, with gentle loving kindness reproofs me, 'I am good. I am the giver of all good things. I lavish you with my goodness. Don't confuse punishment with living in a fallen world.'

I have never, ever found even one whole sand dollar on the beach. I brought home over 20!

Nearing the turn to get back to my car, just when I start to question am I totally crazy for believing God would talk to me, talk to my heart, had I made it all up? He sends one more reminder.


I am understanding the verse in Philippians 2:11 so much more that says "...continue to work out your salvation..."  It's all a process. We are all in process. My afternoon and evening at the beach did a world of good for me. I physically feel lighter, as though burdens were literally taken off my shoulders, words are starting to trickle back in to my mind and are being turned over in my heart, forming into phrases. I'm getting back to right, but it's a new right as God is moving, changing, renewing me. It's a process. I'm a process. I hope to get back to posting regularly soon, and share some of my process with you, but if it seems slow, please be patient and kind - I'm in process... just like you. 

Twinkle Toes

The black leather bucket chair which had been cool when I first sat down was causing me to sweat as I squirmed. My foot was bouncing up and down nervously; I slap-patted my thigh just like my mother does when she is highly emotional. Tears marked a path down my cheeks as I tried to explain to my counselor how I do not want to make a decision out of fear, that I’m tired of living a life guided by fear. But the fear looms so large and seemingly insurmountable. I want to live a life of faith, of radical, obedient faith, but the fear grips my heart and squeezes tight. I feel paralyzed. Much of my life has been dictated by fear. While God has been gracious to me, I don’t regret the choices and paths I’ve taken, but I do wonder sometimes “what if?” It isn’t helpful, I try to avoid hypothesizing what my life would be like if I had fought through the fear for what seemed like first choice. What if I had applied to Wheaton’s Conservatory of Music? I still doubt whether I would have gotten in, but what if I had? And if I didn’t get stopped by the fear of failing at my dream, of moving far away from home, going to unknown mid-west lands? What if I hadn’t been fearful about moving across the country and quitting the job I had been at for one month and applied to Gordon-Cromwell Seminary? Instead I went to Western, which was good and I don’t regret my time there, but how would life be different if I had gone to Boston? What relationships have I let slip away because I feared to be myself, to be open, to share myself? Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of the unknown. Fear of being known. Fear of change. Fear of hurt. So much fear. I am certain that fear is the main weapon Satan uses to intimidate me. It has been a powerful shaping force in my life, and I fear what my life will be like if I allow it to continue influencing me. 

"If you didn't live by fear, Jennifer, what do you want?"

"I want to live life with gusto!"

I heard myself say it as if someone else had proclaimed it. I sat stunned in wondered silence. Where had that come from? It was exactly what was in my heart that I had not found a way to articulate and express. For years I had been trying to find a way to express my heart cry, the true yearning of my heart as it beat against the cage of fear. The front of my fridge is testament to this, a page from my daily calendar is posted reminding me to "Live Out Loud." Next to it is a bright yellow sticker proclaiming "Live Strong." Rosie the Riveter flexes her arm, showing solidarity that, yes, "We can do it!" My favorite part of the movie "Holiday" is when Kate Winslet's character answers that she has "gumption." While all these resonate with me, they are not my own. What do I want instead of the status quo of living by fear? I want to live with gusto! It feels so good to say it!

2 Timothy 1:7 "for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control." (ESV)

To live with gusto, means to live attentive to the Holy Spirit prodding me, nudging me, beckoning me to step out of the shadow of fear into the light of faith, depending on my Holy God to lead - and following. The fear of the unknown, not knowing where the next step might lead keeps me rooted in what feels like safety. I recently read or heard from someplace (I would give credit if I could remember or find it) that the lamp referred to in Psalm 119:105 "Your word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path." would have been a small clay pot; something about the size of your palm. Something like this:

http://www.trocadero.com/TheAweidahGallery/items/1073505/item1073505store.html

It would fit into your palm, a flame would come out of the 'spout' from the oil within. Can you imagine the amount of light a lamp like this would produce? I think we can all agree the answer is - "not a whole lot." Yet this is what the Psalmist is comparing to God's Word. While His Word illuminates and shows us the path, it only does so for the next step or two, not the next twenty or hundred and twenty. It shows us our feet, we can know the solid ground on which we stand, we can see the immediate area, but the rest remains shrouded - it isn't for us to know just yet. We must trust the Spirit, step forward in faith, follow His leading, one step at a time, stay close to Him - our shepherd, our guide, our Lord - for He will make our paths straight (Proverbs 3:5-6). There is wisdom in this. I often feel as though I have plopped right down in the middle of the path, stubbornly sitting criss-cross applesauce, refusing to budge until God turns on the high-beams and discloses the path for the next 30 years. Yet if He did that, I know I would see things that scare me more than what my imagination can conjure up where I sit now and I would absolutely refuse to budge. But everything comes in its own season. What may happen in 10 years time, will come with 10 years worth of God preparing me to handle it. All things in their time. And it won't all be hardship and misery, for I honestly believe God takes great joy in us and our delight (Jeremiah 29:11; Zephaniah 3:17; Matthew 7:11).

I want to live life with gusto, going after life, living it with passion and fullness, my heart fully engaged. Breaking old habits and patterns to live from my heart is going to take some practice. It starts with Bob like "baby steps." Shortly after my "gusto" revelation I wrote a list of things I want to do in life for a contest.  It seems like a pretty safe list - either far-fetched, or non-threatening, some are maybe a little silly. But there is one item that, for me, will require courage - learning to dance - #26.

When I was 7 years old, I dropped out of ballet class as soon as my mother would let me. I didn't like being the pudgy klutzy kid who didn't get it, and the teacher was mean. The only school dance I went to from 7th grade until 12th was the "50's dance" in junior high that was at the end of the swing dance unit in gym class. In seminary I had a classmate who would host dance lessons in the basement of his church about once a month, teaching us the waltz, foxtrot, swing, and would organize 'outings' to such places as the Norse Lodge for their dances. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Take note - I enjoyed it; that is not the same as being good. I haven't had much opportunity to dance since then. About a year ago I started going to a class at the gym, "Group Groove" (think modern jazzercise). But not before doing several drive-bys, going for a 'regular' workout about the same time as the class so that I could scope it out through the windows, fearful that I would be out of place, make a fool of myself. The first time I went I staked out a spot in the back corner where no one would see all my missteps. The thing is, a year into this class, I have accepted that I do look like a fool, especially when I try (and fail) to do the running man. But also because of my big goofy grin that spreads from ear to ear because I am having so much fun. The joy I experience has overcome the fears and I keep going to class whenever I can.

Yesterday a Groupon showed up in my inbox for ballet lessons. My first impulse was to buy it. I want to learn ballet, I had it on my list. But then I waffled, my seven year old self and all her fears re-emerging; all the insecurities of old bubbling up and splotching out my excitement. What if I was the only adult? What if I have to wear a leotard and tights? (Yikes!) What if I fail, and I'm just as bad now as I was thirty some years ago? What if I'm foolish looking? Fears and obstacles, trapping my heart. Once at work, I looked at the email again. And closed it down. After grabbing my mid-morning coffee I opened the email again and followed the link to the company website. I found a class called "Absolute Beginning Adult Ballet." I might be able to handle this class, I thought. But then I noticed it is only offered on Sunday and a voice told me it was wrong to do something like a ballet class on Sunday, the Sabbath - it is the Lord's day; 'how can you consider doing something like dancing and working out on a holy day?' I closed the email once again. I never deleted the email, just closed it, my heart was yearning to say "yes" to this opportunity. It wasn't long before I opened the email again, looked at the class listing one more time - yup, still only Sunday - but why should that matter in this instance? I would go hiking on a Sunday. I regularly do races on a Sunday. I fill my Sundays with busyness that is anything but holy. If I do believe that God rejoices in our delight, why wouldn't this be a perfectly wonderful thing to do on a Sunday? Here is an opportunity that will give me joy, delight, and in a strange way help to loosen the shackles of fear around my heart; give me practice at stepping out of the worries and bindings of fear and into my heart desires. A baby step. Or, perhaps, a "glissade en avant" (yeah, I looked that up online) towards living a more open, heart driven life - living with gusto.

I opened up the email one more time and clicked "purchase." A moment later I nearly skipped down the hall as I went to refill my water bottle, grinning the whole way. I am going to take ballet lessons! And if I have to wear a leotard and tights, I'm getting a tutu as well!

Wherever I go - even into ballet class! 

Gobsmacked!

[Sorry friends! This should have posted August 4th, somehow it got stuck in draft mode.]

I have been very privileged to travel to many corners of this world. I have seen many beautiful places in far flung locations. The glowing limestone walls of Jerusalem at sunset, the rolling hills outside Brno covered in red poppies in spring time, the Julian Alps freshly covered in snow, the thick lush green of Tryon Creek forest. Added to this prestigious list today is the countryside just outside Tegucigalpa at daybreak. Clouds were hanging low, hugging the curves of the hills, the sun painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold. The trees glinting in the early morning light. We left the hotel at 5 am to head out to Corralitos. I brought with me my IPhone, a book, a few magazines, all of which to entertain myself on the ride; none of it was needed - I just sat staring out the window in awe of the beauty. I had stashed my bag with my cameras in the back of the truck, out of reach, so I can't share the glory of the morning, but I don't think the magnificence could have been captured. It was so stunning!

By the time we arrived at abuela (grandmother; g'ma to Edwin and Miguel Fugon) Gloria's home in Corralitos the sun had been up for many hours. Three U-turns and a questionable road gave us the opportunity to take the scenic route which I thoroughly enjoyed. Abuela's house is on the side of a mountain, overlooking a steep valley and opposing hillside. The view was worth a million bucks, her house was not. We had come up here, to a spot that felt a world away from the city, to build her a new home - in a day. It wouldn't be much of a home by our American standards - an 18x20 square foot room, but for abuela - it was a palace and an answered prayer. The house she had been living in wasn't much bigger, if at all, but it was built on the ground, just dirt for floors, the wood had dry rot and was falling apart, the roof leaked so that when it rained instead of sleeping at night she would have to sit up in a corner to do her best to stay dry. She now has a home with a wood floor that is elevated off the ground, a metal roof to keep the rain out - a safe and dry place where she can sleep no matter the weather.

Today it hit me - between building this house for abuela and helping build the foundation for Ana's house - we are God's answer and provision to these two women. Our team isn't doing anything amazing or significant, we are each contributing a small effort, whatever we are capable of. Together it adds up to a house or a rock retaining wall. But that is the normal reality of the Christian life; being the hands and feet of Christ to this world. We are obedient in the small things, the trivial matters, we give what we can - and God works through that and converts it in His economy to create an answer to a multi-year long prayer and blesses the socks off these women. I don't know that I have ever been able to take what I've done in the past few hours and confidently say, 'I was part of God answering this person's prayer.'

I couldn't do much and felt pretty useless today. My hands were hurting and the wrists aching, hammering would not have been an unwise choice, but that is what was mostly needed for this project. While the post holes were being dug and the lumber carried down and put in place I talked with abuela, learning about the plants in her yard. She has her very own coffee plants! She grows her own coffee! The coffee addict in me really wished she would have offered a cup of her homegrown brew. But for a gal who harbors a fantasy to start an organic, shade grown, fair trade coffee co-op adjacent to Micah and VLM I was pretty excited just to see and touch a real coffee bush. I also learned about a different variety of cilantro than what I ever knew existed, tried raw sugar cane, and pure extracted cane juice boiled into a block. (Did you know I am allergic to sugar cane? I wasn't about to say no to our gracious host though.) I am so glad I got an opportunity to just spend time with her; she is a pretty incredible woman.

My two big highlights of the day:
1) Abuela must have been watching me roast hot dog after hot dog over the open fire for peoples lunch, but not see me eat the first one I cooked. As people ate their fill and went back to work, the crowd waning, I worked on repairing one of the roasting sticks to finish up cooking the dogs, abuela decided it was time for me to eat. She walked right up to me, grabbed me firmly by the wrist and pulled me into her home and motioned for me to serve myself some of the soup she had made. Although I had no idea what she was saying, unsure if it was totally safe or what the "meat" was, I knew she was going to be adamant, there was nothing to do but eat the soup. Don't mess with grandma!

2) At the end of the day we 'presented' Gloria with her new home and prayed for her. As she tried to express her thanks she was so overcome with emotion that she broke down crying. This strong, confident, capable mountain woman buried her petite head into Brian's chest like a child, using his t-shirt to daub away her tears.

Abuela Gloria cuts up some
sugar cane for us to enjoy.

The old

The new (almost complete)

Tears of Joy