So it would seem like I fell into a hole and had abandoned this place altogether. 

This would not be true. 

I am very much here, although I can not deny that I am in a hole. 

I am in a hole. 

But I am coming out. 

Soon. 

Be wary. 

Although the call of God is not like getting an acceptance letter from a top-notch university, living the Christian life sure feels like being enrolled in school (The School of Hard Knocks, perhaps.)  The Great Dean of All Things seems to have a pretty rigorous curriculum and a consistent homework schedule.  The problem is that most of the time, I am completely unaware of what they are.  He does not often provide the most detailed syllabus... you know what I mean?  

Whatever the case may be, UGE is an institution I am privileged to say that I have fully bought in to, and I also fully endorse.    I am also happy that I have fellow students who I am grateful to be able to work in cooperation with...

Hymn, by Thomas Moore

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish,
Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure!
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.”

Here see the Bread of Life, see waters flowing
Forth from the throne of God, pure from above.
Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing
Earth has no sorrow but heaven can remove.

written and unposted on May 8, 2011

I don't care if the fat lady's singing or not. The truth is, she's sung so many times that I've stopped expecting it to be over. 

So I guess the best way to describe these last few days/weeks is this: a crucible. Because I'm a high school teacher, the first thing that pops into my mind when I think about this is "THE Crucible." You know. The play about witches and trials and... McCarthyism? I told you I was a teacher. 

But I'm not talking about Arthur Miller's play. Does anyone really know what a crucible is? 

It's this little jar usually made out of white ceramic. It looks like a mortar and pestle, which is used to grind things up, but there's a key difference. It's not for grinding; it's for heating. These crucibles are supposed to withstand enough temperature to chemically change whatever's in the jar. It's usually recruited in labs, or in making things like metal and glass. There is a whole lot of heat involved. 

And even as I say this, it's pretty ridiculous. The events that precipitated this is long and arduous and too numerous to list here. It was, in essence, the perfect storm. Or, I should say, it is. But at face value, the trial is relatively small. I can only surmise that this was a lesson handed to me. And importantly, the usual "it's probably a boy thing" is not true in this case. Far from it.  

The good news is that I discovered that my faith was not a house of cards. A house of cards crumbles with a removal or a card or two, especially from the base. My house... it was like fire damage. The basement is ok, but part of the roof has caved in to the living area, and there's water damage from the fire fighters, and a lot of things are charred. It's still a bit useless to try and live in. 

So God is still calling me higher, to more changes, to a better realization of Him. I've seen people go through this experience before, and I never really knew their heart. And all the people who offer disinterested criticisms, or misguided rebukes, or thoughtless corrections... I know they have no idea. They're like Job's wife, or his friends, who really. Had. No. Idea. In the end, Job had to intercede and pray for them. I imagine it was for both their sakes. 

Time is and odd thing, though. Even as the lessons are not yet complete, the emotions are already blurring away at the edges. And so I've clung to the pit. In what seems and feels like utter stupidity. I don't want to leave this unchanged. 

And so this house needs rebuilding. Not remodeling. Not resurfacing. It needs to be razed. With the good stuff and bad stuff. With the stuff I want to keep, and the stuff that needed to be chucked anyway. God is not a remodeler, after all, right? He's in the business of creating new things. 

And so. Here is the lesson. Even in the peak of our spiritual experience, in our fastings and in our prayings... in our purity, in our selflessness... all this still required the sacrifice of God's dear Son. How heinous is sin, that even when we perceive ourselves as ok--maybe not perfect, but at least better-than-before, or lookin'-pretty-good, or maybe the unfortunate better-than-that-other-guy, Christ had to die. His sacrifice has no respect of persons or rank or relative goodness. We need as much grace as does a woman with seven demons cast out of her. Seventy times seven times. 

Lesson two. There will be questions that have no answers. Time becoming history might tell. It might not. Heaven, however, will. Submission to God and a deep (really, really deep)-seeded understanding and belief in the goodness of God's character is key to overcoming this. There are things in life we cannot control. People we cannot protect or move out of the reach of His arm. The breath in our lungs are all borrowed air. 

Lesson three. There are times when we need God. But there are also times when God needs us. In the case of Job, Job was called upon to be a spectacle unto the world. Not because Job deserved punishment, but because he could endure it. Not because of sin or presumption or lack of faith, but precisely because he had faith. God needed Job to be one who could be considered. Tried. Crucibled. At the expense of people who seemingly had nothing to do with him directly: this servants. His animals. His children. This is no consolation. But this world is no party, and we ought to stop thinking of it as one. Job endured. Who are we to do any less? 

And just as we need God just the same whether we be in the mountains or in the pit or in the crucible, God is also present in each of those places. Still gentle. Still kind. Not walking around with a "Board of Education" poised to strike us unawares, but with the heart of a Father who chastens and loves. And can we not love Him back, who gave us all? Can we not justify Him? Can we stop being "fair weather" friends with a God who sticks to us amidst all our mood swingyness? Can we say, "God is good," and vindicate Him even as it seems as if He slays us? 

It's not over. But it's almost over. It's been exhausting. I am most grateful for the prayers I know have been assisting me. I am most grateful for friends who care enough to listen, and to help, and to aid, even in the smallest ways. There is yet much to learn, much to do, much higher heights to attain. There is much conferencing with the Head of the Heavenly Department. 

I've redesigned my site and renamed it. It's spring. The time for new beginnings, and if you're on a high school campus, new relationships. 

Breaking the silence with a poem I fell in love with in college by Dylan Thomas, one of my favorite poets. I still remember my professor, with her slight English accent, reading it out loud. And later, I was able to hear a recording of Thomas reading it himself. I remember being catapulted away into a world where words were beautiful and masterfully evocative, full of rhythm and internal rhymes. It's repeating themes of greens, colors, barns and kingship is a reflection of childhood, or the time before a storm. It is a eulogy for me tonight.  

Fern Hill
by Dylan Thomas 

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. 

I've been trapping stinkbugs. 

It's true. 

Ever since my last encounter with a stinkbug, I've been a little bit more ruthless in my dealings with them. I have these short plastic cups I've been using to scoop 'em up before transporting them to the Ceramic Dungeon which happens to have a flush handle. Sometimes it takes a little rattling of the cup to get them loose enough to chuck into the toilet. But no more setting them free into the Great Outdoors. No, no. 

Recently, however, I decided to keep them around for a bit. Try to get over my dread of bugs. Therapy, you know. Why not, while I'm grappling with all these other issues? I can tell you one thing so far: it's not working. No matter how often I look at these bugs, I can't seem to lose my disgust for them, let alone develop an affinity. Stinkbugs, in particular, are really gross. I have this odd fascination about how they actually smell like. Maybe I can smell the cup. After this one meets its demise, anyway. The last one croaked before meeting the "watery grave." And I don't mean baptism. 

I really hate bugs. Studying them doesn't help. There's nothing redeeming about them. They creep me out. Did you know they have this awesome ability to not only fall on their backs really often but to get themselves upright? It kind of looks like they're doing "The Fish." Except on they're on their backs. If you don't know what "The Fish" is, you're not missing much. 

Really, I just wanted to write an entry that didn't have to do with anything. So here it is. 

School is winding down. The kids are, as one says it, "squirrelly." As am I. 

There are may lessons yet I need to learn, so I'm off to get schooled by a Master Teacher. More to come. 

Grace is slowly seeping back into my heart. 

The Ugly things of life has reared its ugly head on the valley this week. There is no preparing for something like this. Being cognizant of the ever-cycling stages of grief doesn’t help. Kubler-Ross (the woman who is known for developing the DABDA stages) could take some hints from me. I’d recommend that she throw in words like “confusion,” “numbness,” “irrationality,” “confusion,” “fear,” “mistrust,” and  did I mention “confusion” again…? Instead of DABDA (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) I’d have DACANCFDABDCIFACA….  Not as easy to remember for a Psych 101 test.

In the end though, both our lists end with A: "acceptance.”

I was already upset with God when I got the news that one of our students had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I was already upset that He had thwarted my plans for the week. A plan that would’ve blessed these students immeasurably. A plan that would've fit perfectly in the scheme of then-present things. I could say this because I was confident in my ability to see the future (God has had to humble me recently). I was upset and confused and angry already. He was already chiding me. I was already resisting Him. Already threatening to be forever scarred. 

And then Thursday night when all the faculty and staff were called for an "emergency meeting" in the church, where the already-disastrous Week of Prayer was taking place for the students, and the vice principal sobbed the news in the fellowship hall to a shocked group which was then told to "go and be a comfort for the students." It is a tremendously awful sight to see a campus in mourning. I won't ever forget it. 

Ever since the announcement on campus of my 4-year senior’s death, I’ve been dreading work. Dreading coming to school. Dreading the campus. Dreading being here. Dreading thinking about class parties, and class meetings, and class trips, and graduation. Dreading the future, dreading the past, and dragging through the present. Dreading having to be the senior class sponsor and dreading the thought that I may cry again. 

I’ve been short with everyone. Angry. Upset. Mean. I’ve been telling kids to “keep it down!” "go to class!” and a slew of other comments that I quickly swallow before the funnel of destruction leaps out of my mouth to consume them. 

I’m angrier at people who bother me, less tolerant of people I don’t want to see, less forgiving of character flaws, less desiring to give help and offer advice. Sure, it sounds very much like a textbook case of the “Anger” phase of grieving. But I don’t care. I’m angry. Not at anyone in particular. I’m just a grump. I don’t want to be around myself. I’m mad that I couldn’t protect him. I’m mad that I wasn’t consulted about this. I’m mad that I thought I should be consulted about this. I’m mad that there is yet little I can do to make everything better. I'm mad that I chose this one incident to mourn over versus the accumulated hundreds that I hear about on the news in any given year. I’m mad that I’m being so irrational. I’m mad that I’m being so irrational about someone that wasn’t even my own. Not my brother. Not my friend. Not my son. I feel as though I'm intruding. 

His middle name was Sterling. That always struck me about him.

I can’t use certain phrases anymore without realizing how awful it sounds in context. How easily we throw around words about death and dying. And how I can’t laugh about it or brush it aside. We throw each other “under the bus.” We tell someone we’ll “kill” them for trivial matters. We are struck, but not killed. No, not like he was killed…

I need a break. And I know that it’s not a break I want. I carry this home with me.

But in the end, I found Him. Not past the faces of the dead that I keep seeing in my mind. Not past the thought that I might’ve caught him outside my window, going about routines as normal. Not past the hope that I could think, Whew. I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

No, in the end I found Him, God, my Friend, Lover of my soul, not past all these things but in all these things. In the depths of my despair, He was there. Strong and gleaming as ever He was on the mountain top. My fortress and my shield, my comfort.  

He comes to me as a balm from a faraway place, unknown and unvisited. He comes through students who still need my help. Through promptings of the Spirit. He comes through seasons of prayer, and laughter, and love. He comes through the knowledge that there is yet an infinite vastness of things I have yet to learn about the God I claim to love and follow. He comes through my anger and exhaustion and sorrow. 

I am understanding the words of Psalm 139 better: “whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed I hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.” (v 7-10)

So there He is. The same, yesterday, today, and forever. I just never had to see Him in that light. But I had a good look. And He's the same. I promise. 

Why and how this lesson must be learned is still something I am grappling with. But in the end, I acknowledge: He does all things well. In my exhaustion, I realize that I beat only against the air. He is good. And evermore so. He is kind. And He is King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. If there is one thing I have taken from this, it must be called submission. 

For Part II: A Sputnik Crisis (a call to young professionals) click here. 

It's been two weeks since my last update. God is good. The responses I've received and the phone calls I've had and the people I've talked to late into the night have cheered me. Many thoughts remain... and as I look upon Christ, I am shaken. His love is so immense, His sacrifice so great, His mercies so... undeserving. It is often during these times that I look at myself in wonder. How did I get here? 

Some closing thoughts.

"A revival of true godliness among us is the greatest and most urgent of all our needs. To seek this should be our first work. There must be earnest effort to obtain the blessing of the Lord, not because God is not willing to bestow His blessing upon us, but because we are unprepared to receive it. Our heavenly Father is more willing to give His Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than are earthly parents to give good gifts to their children. But it is our work, by confession, humiliation, repentance, and earnest prayer, to fulfill the conditions upon which God has promised to grant us His blessing. A revival need be expected only in answer to prayer."

I read this quote recently and I am struck. Even if the entire world's population of young professionals, college students, upper management, clergy, and all manner of laity rise up, it is useless without the Spirit of God. There can be no reformation without it. 

And He is so willing to give it. More than parents are willing to give good gifts to their children. More than mothers are willing to sacrifice sleep and sanity for their newborns. More than fathers are willing to give sound advice to their sons. More than I am willing to give up my days and evenings and weekends for these kids. 

Is it really that NOT enough people are asking for it? Am I not enough? 

Silly questions. 

In Part II of this series, I talked about the Sputnik Crisis. I've been wondering what this would look like in our time. What smack-in-the-face experience do we really need? What are we waiting for? When will we wake up? When will these "good works" of campmeetings and revivals and rallys cease to be works and start to be a life-altering commitment by everyone involved?

These questions have been asked before.

And yet we are still here. We are still talking about next time, and next year, and the next generation. Is anyone else tired of this? Rise up... 

Because the Sputnik Crisis is here. It's been here. It's walked this earth. It's touched the sick and the sick of heart. It's here in our sacrifice for others, in the gospel we mumble out because we're insecure, in the blood that covers us and covers us and covers us because we fall back again and again and again. It's in the eyes that look on with love, understanding, and forgiveness as we profess our witness falsely and crucify Him afresh... It's in the friends we betray, the parents we dishonor, the labor we shirk. The slap-in-the-face is His love, and our character which is so fraught with sin that we can't even see the chasm that separates us from Him. It's the children to whom we'll have to say, "It's your turn now..." It's the wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, disasters, and the degradation of nature, both earthly and human. 

When will this end?

These are momentous times. 

I say that often lately. And I believe it. It's as if the Esthers and Nehemiahs and Ezras and Zerubabbels are all coming out of the woodwork. It is such a time as this. Keep contacting people. Keep looking upward. Keep emailing me and calling me. Keep plugged in. Keep forwarding thoughts and messages to each other. Tell the world. Revival can begin again. 

Life is exciting. 

And yet the work is daunting. I look at all the people who have gone before us. All those who say, "Yeah, when I was your age, I used to think Jesus would come before I got married." Before I had children. before I turned forty. before I stopped trying. before I lost hope. 

And they ask me, "Did we do something wrong?" I don't know what to tell them. I don't know. I don't know what went wrong. I don't know why more people didn't rise up. I don't know if the same thing is about to happen and fast forward thirty years and I'm still here. It brings me to desperation. 

I don't want to give up. I don't want to flag. Time is like sand through my fingers and during staff meeting when we're looking at calendars and the top it says "April 2012" I want to cry. People are already planning for years in advance. As though nothing is expected to change... as though we're still going to be going 'round and 'round and I know... I KNOW... I know I can't do this alone. I can't even do this with fifty people by my side. But with the Spirit of God, we can. 

In the end, the Sputnik Crisis will be exactly where it was when the disciples encountered it, some thousand plus years before there was even the dream of broaching the great beyonds of space. It will be in the pricking of the heart and the conversion of the soul. It will be in the outpouring of the Spirit. It will be in confession and repentance and the humility of knowing that we are the ones who are sitting on the walls, looking to our own work while God's house is in ruin. It will be here, where it was, all the time. 

Sometimes I think I sound like a madman. A madman preacher running through the streets. "The end is near, the end is near!" But if I be mad for Christ, so be it. Rise up, my fellows. Rise up. The time is sooner than you think. It is high time to rise up and build. 

Ten:A Decade of God (Part II of II)
or, A "Sputnik Crisis." (Click here for Part I)

Today.

Life has not been a blur, but if it were, it would be a rich one. Stacked within the past 10 years include countless hours of campus ministries, personal growth, graduate school toils, and much tearful work. Spiritual progress has not been an unbroken upward slope, but it’s been upward nonetheless. It has always been my belief that God moved the world to save me, and I have given my world to Him for use in the same function for others.

In Boston, I loved being in an environment of intelligent and driven students. I loved the thrill of having Bible Studies in a classroom where secular things were discussed almost exclusively. The idea of having “infiltrated” institutions like Boston University, Harvard, MIT, and Wellesley, tickled me and excited me. But with time comes growth.

Tomorrow.

In five years, I will officially no longer be a “youth” in the eyes of certain conferences (see: surcharges). This same conference will be in its 14^th year. Those who have experienced the first meetings at the age of 15 will have nearly doubled in age and will be entering the workforce. I will have (potentially) graduated a new batch of 4-year seniors. In other news, a few more rounds of campus missionaries will be trained and released. Those active on campuses are demoted to “supporter” status or will cycle back into the program.

Now.

I still have a heart for campus ministries. But relevancy, an issue that used to be a non-issue is starting to seep in through random corners of conversation. Incoming Freshmen are now more than 10 years younger than I am. Being near the front of the wave of my friends, I feel like I’m bushwhacking into unchartered territory. Campus ministries have been done, but what happens now?

Hovering in a demographic somewhere between “young professional” and “that woman over there,” I am trying to figure out my new niche in life. Am I meant to be a “supporter of campus ministries” forever? Are there not enough mentors and advisors? Furthermore, should they not have the privilege of laboring without having an increasing amount of people looking over their shoulders?

In my heart, I will always be young, but I am fully (albeit not painfully) aware of the increasing generation gap. Although I’ve been mistaken as one, I can never convincingly play the peer to an of-age college student.

And yet, my belief that Jesus is coming soon is stronger than ever. If desire alone could usher in the coming of Jesus, He would have burst through the clouds of glory. Hundreds of years ago. But desire is not enough.

It’s my belief that if we want to finish the work soon, the movement has to push from more fronts than just where the youth are moving. It has to happen in all levels of the hierarchy: from the entry-level, through middle-management, and all the way up to the ones who can call the shots. Revival must happen everywhere.

I’m reminded of the situation in the time of Haggai. Freedom has come, and a few stragglers are back in Jerusalem. A great majority has chosen to stay in the land of their captivity after planting their vineyards and raising their children. Many of the leaders who have returned have been born in captivity. The work of rebuilding the temple is difficult, and it stagnates.

“Thus speaketh the LORD of hosts, saying, This people say, the time is not come, the time that the LORD’s house should be built. Then came the word of the LORD by Haggai the prophet, saying, Is it time for you, O ye, to dwell in your ceiled houses, and this house lie waste? Now therefore thus saith the LORD of hosts; Consider your ways.” (Haggai 1:2ff)

My age group (and my mother, incidentally) demands that I should be married (or at least desiring to be.) It states that my dreams ought to align with the norms of living with a husband and my one and a half kids, with half a dog (strange) running around in my backyard which, in many stories, has a white picket fence surrounding it. 

And even now, I encounter students and peers alike who say such things like, “I need to be married before Jesus comes,” for atrocious reasons like (true story) wanting to experience sex before (they fear) their organs will be swallowed up and they become like those poor angels who will never have an orgasm.

Yes, I just said that.

“Go up to the mountain, and bring wood, and build the house; and I will take pleasure in it, and I will be glorified, saith the LORD. Ye looked for much, and lo, it came to little; and when ye brought it home, I did blow upon it. Why? saith the LORD of hosts. Because of mine house that is laid waste, and ye run every man unto his own house. Therefore the heaven over you is stayed from dew, and the earth is stayed from her fruit.

“And I called for a drought upon the land, and upon the mountains, and upon the corn, and upon the new wine, and upon the oil, and upon that which the ground bringeth forth, and upon men, and upon cattle, and upon the labor of the hands.” (Haggai 1:8ff)

Did you catch that? A drought upon the land. And upon men. And upon the labor of the hands. The reason why we are not as productive as we should be, the reason why there is no revival, no pouring down of the Spirit like rainwater bursting out of a dam is because people are putting their needs above the needs of the house of God, and the gate of Heaven. 

And the ridiculous thing is that the things we fail to put on the altar because we are afraid they will be burnt to a crisp in the sacrificial fire are the things that are included in the “all these things” that God desires to give us if we seek Him first.

About 54 years ago, well into the Cold War, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1, the very first Earth-orbiting satellite. The “Sputnik Crisis” which ensued was a result of the smack-in-the-face experience that the US, which believed itself to be the “World’s Best in Everything,” experienced. Add two failed launch attempts as salt on the wound from not being “first.” Dwight D. Eisenhower (I wasn’t there, I promise) and government poured literally billions of dollars into the education system to raise up mathematicians and scientists who would be better equipped to make the US “Best in Everything” again. 

When my students ask me why they have to suffer through Algebra II, this is what I tell them.

Sputnik was a shock. But it was an eye-opener, and it resulted in the space race, a mini-revolution in the United States which did result in more scientists and engineers who created innovations and inventions that reverberate to this day. The explosion of creativity that ensued can be described as astounding.

The point is that we as young professionals need a Sputnik crisis. We need a smack-in-the-face, seven-thousand-out-there, what-doeth-thou-here experience.

Unless we discover that there is a world to win out there, and that God’s Sputnik expectations are within reach, we will never strive for it. If we constantly look to the younger generation to carry the torch, who are they going to hand it to? And where will the former torch bearers go? Will they also stand in line to receive their 1.5 kids? Or cycle back to being a “campus ministry supporter”? Will they join the fate of the vast majority of young professionals that are “missing” from the church?[1] Will our lives after GYC[2], or CAMPUS[3], or any spiritual work comprise merely of talk about life and paying back school loans, and moving to a good school district for the kids?

Not to diminish families, homes, and being good citizens. But I believe that there is a new breed of young professionals that are rising up. These people are trained and knowledgeable in the workings of campus ministries. They already know how to reach out, and how to support local schools. They are not going to give up their torch, but will carry it to new fields. But their duty is more than to support. They will also lead. 

These words are not for everyone.

I said that at the end of these two parts there would be a call. The call is simple, and in two parts: 1. Rise up, my fellows. Dream with me. The territory is yet unchartered. I don’t know where to go from here, but I do know that something must be done. 2. Connect yourself. Talk to me. Talk to someone. Tell us your story. Let's do something. I am already in talks with others about expanding the work that is already in progress. Life is exciting. These are times when, as a friend said, "Life is better than dreams." 

My desire is to have young people in place—consistent, stable, and available—for the ones that are coming after us. People who are excellent in their field, and who are meeting their new mission field with different tools but the same fervor as in the past with their campus work. Professors who can be the rock for an ever-changing wave of students. Administrators who can influence policy and create programs from the top down. Lawyers who have already been navigating the system and can map out some territory for others.

I believe that if time continues, young professionals, rightly trained, will become experienced professionals, and if they are excellent, they will become high-ranking professionals. And the work will continue with people from the top, from the middle and from the grass roots.

And then there will be no more pain. No more suffering. No more tears. The temple of the New Jerusalem will be here, and we will be taken up to meet Him in the air. 

And so shall we ever be with the LORD.

Ten years ago, God moved my world. Ten years later, I'm looking to see what He'll do next. 

This is a two-parter starting with a brief testimony and ending with a call. In the process of writing this, I struggled with my never-dying desire to preserve my anonymity and the ever-increasing reminder that my memories are not as accurate as they seem. Thanks to the promptings of the Spirit, the journals that were gathering dust in the corners of my bookshelves, and reliably kept archives of blogs and emails, I've been able to compile a more-accurate story of my coming-of-age into Christianity, and ten years later, a call to rise higher. Some of this has never been told. Some parts remain untold. 

Part One of "Ten: A Decade of God"
or, God On My Heels

Ten years ago. January. I am moved out of my parents' house in New York City, and in my last semester of my undergraduate studies in Brain and Cognitive Sciences at the University of Rochester. I am roughly four years into my separation from God, and having a ball. I rock my seminar classes, including one memorable one when I nail a presentation I give about brain development in the occipital cortex in children born blind. 

I take History of Christianity partially because a friend took it and liked it, and secretly because I want to know Jesus. God is starting to call me back, and I am struggling to resist Him. In class, the Jewish professor critically breaks down the historicity and veracity of the Gospels. I was raised in a Christian home, and am intrigued by how much I didn’t know about basic Biblical doctrines. I argue with the only girl who tries to extend a hand to me to bring me back to Christianity. She eventually tires of me shooting her down. I get to know Jesus in spite of it all. A seed is planted. 

I take a trip, where I visit a new state, meet new people, and literally have my life view changed forever. God plants another seed and waters it.  

May. I throw my cap up in the air and don’t pick it up again. 

I get my first job in Massachusetts, near Boston. The pay is literally laughable. (My parents laughed.) I get my first car (Beannie.) 

July. My job begins. I have my first (rented) apartment. I find a housemate. She is an Orthodox Jew.  

August. I go to church with the excuse of putting my parents at ease. Starting with Sabbath School, because in my mind, that’s how it’s supposed to be done. I and another first-time visitor are the only ones there along with the teacher. The three of us talk under a tree outside. I meet new people. I like them. I haven't cleaned up my language yet. Church is yet a duty to my parents that I check off my list. 

September. I come home from an overnight shift at work, and try to nap. Unusually, I turn on the TV. On every channel, there is a picture of one of the twin towers smoldering, surrounded by thick waves of smoke. No one knows what's going on. I watch in shock, leaping to my feet, hand over my mouth, as a second plane crashes into the other tower. My mind can not process what's going on. Time is a blur between phone calls, jammed lines, tears, prayers, and the towers collapsing in a heap. I am thinking, Things will never be the same. This phrase is echoed by others on the streets of New York. For the next few months, every car has a tattered American flag waving on its antennae. I find out later that my parents were en route to the very place with a visitor, and thankfully never made it there, but saw everything from the bridge. To this day, I can't look at any tribute to the Towers for long. 

November. God is moving fast. I start reading the Bible because I figure I need to be intellectual and “open minded” about the world I live in. I start from the back—in Jude, because Revelation was daunting—and move backwards. I am taking detailed notes on every chapter. Bible studies are happening on a local college campus. I am invited. I go, although I am nervous about driving and parking in the city. I am still ambivalent about being called any denomination, although "Christian" is a term I am starting to like. I have age-level friends at church now, something I've almost never had in my life. They start sharing pre-recorded sermons with me (on tape.) I am hooked, and ripe for the picking.  

On a dark night’s drive home, God meets me and I am shaken. In tears, I tell Him I give up—and that I am His.

December. I am almost finished with reading and annotating the entire New Testament. Including Revelation. I am teaching Sabbath School. I give my first Children's Story. I give my first sermon. I am feeling a definite call to do something, although I don't know what that could even mean. I am navigating and parking like a pro in the Boston streets.

In a few months (June of the next year), I will be invited to a winter retreat called Emmaus. I will go. I will publicly confess my thanks to God commit my life back to Him in front of a midweek campfire.  I will be in love with the prophets Elijah and Elisha. 

There is no turning back now. 

And here I am. Life has taken me from a mid-size school in Rochester, NY though 6 residences, 5 employers, 4 states, and over 110,000-miles-in-the-same-car later to a small Podunk town in Podunk, Virginia. I’ve loved every job I’ve ever had. My interest in the Bible has grown into an all-out love for God. He continues to reveal more of Himself to me and I am daily encouraged at His power that is as effective now as it ever has been.

The past ten years have been truly amazing. Through the ups and downs, I don’t regret a moment of it. I can’t. The cumulative experiences of those hours have made me who I am. And I’ll never forget that moment when God’s time intersected with mine and veered it in a course that altogether changed the very fiber of who I thought I was, and what I thought I was capable of doing. 

(End Part One)
Click here for Part II.