I'm a good girl, I am.

"The difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated. I shall always be a common flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me like a common flower girl, and always will. But I know that I shall always be a lady to Colonel Pickering, because he always treats me like a lady, and always will."

 -Eliza Doolittle

My Fair Lady. Last night I was delighting in the poetic prose and insightful quips of this classic musical (and, ok the fabulous costumes and the undeniable charm of Audrey)- and aching at the shocking similarity of turn-of-the-century Covent Garden, London and the red light streets of Chiang Mai. Beautiful, broken girls- with a song in their heart, longing for home. I know these girls. I love these girls. I want them all to have homes somewhere, far away from the cold nights on the street. I want them to know that they are beautiful. Wait a minute- I'm not in on good behavior, I have been saved off the same street- I was once outside, and have been invited in. Carried in. I know us girls. I love us girls. I want us to all have homes somewhere, far from the cold nights on whatever street we live. I want us to know we are beautiful. Because He is beauty itself, and He is alive in us. 

Suddenly something struck me. And it wasn't a pair of slippers. 

I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you! 

*It's the gospel!*

Not the impostor gospel that oozes out of every pore in many churches around the world, and especially in America. You know, the one that is Henry Higgins and avails itself to the flower girls of our world: promising to secure "them" a dignified place in society (and chocolate), throwing a few coins, and then heading home in taxis, congratulating itself on its generosity. Any common flower girl can spot this fraud from the curb. 

Self-righteousness is hilarious in the scene where Eliza attempts to defend herself, screaming in her filthy, ragged clothes- "I washed my face and hands before I come, I did!" And I realize how dumb I look to God when I get caught trying to justify myself before Him. 

The next scene is a far cry from a beautiful baptism, as Eliza is wrestled into a tub and scrubbed by the maids while she wails, fearing for her life as she's never had a bath before. It's really quite traumatizing to watch, as this cleansing, though good for her- is forced upon her.  

How often are people bullied into receiving this "gospel?":
"If you refuse this offer, you will be the most ungrateful, wicked girl, and the angels will weep for you." -H.H.

Or caught in the exhausting cycle of striving to earn the approval of man. Imputing a cold and disciplined self-righteousness-driven work to God- looks as ridiculous as trying to recite poetry with mouths full of marbles to perfect an accent by sheer willpower, because we have been told: 
"You'll get much further with the Lord if you learn not to offend His ears."-H.H.

And this is a lie. 

This is not the gospel. It is not a bath, a new dress, and a polished accent that makes us new. Yeah, our sin is offensive to Him, who lives in unapproachable light and perfection and holiness- and yet He came down to the dark curbs and reached out to us while we were still in our street rags, while we still spoke in our accents of sin- and reached out to us, offered to set us free and make us new- Christ laid down His life in order to make a way for us to be with the Father. In His death, He invites us to die, and be free forever from everything that enslaves us to sin, everything that separates us from Him. In His life, He invites us to be with Him, to be new, and freely live, worshiping Him with joy as we were created to do- beautifully.  There is no amount of scrubbing that we can do to change our own hearts. We cannot perfect our accents to sound close enough to worthy to approach the throne of grace apart from Jesus Christ. And- we don't have to! That's why the gospel is good news! These improvements do not turn a flower girl into a lady. It is the utter transformation from inside our hearts as His gospel grows, taking root and blooming in us. It is His Spirit bringing to life what was dead:

“And when I passed by you and saw you struggling in your own blood, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ Yes, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’" Ezekiel 16:6

In our sin, He chose us. He saves us, establishes us, He makes us beautiful. Point is, we-the church- are a lady because Christ has always treated us as lady and always will. Not because we're good girls. Truth is, we aren't. We are still full of un-ladylike behavior. (I've seen us at the horse-races, and it's not pretty :) It's not what we do to clean ourselves up, or our own (futile!) attempts to overcome the cockney accent of sin- it's what He has done- once, for all in salvation, and continues to do in us through sanctification- cultivating beauty. 

Eliza nailed it with her quote above- we're not good because we behave- we can't! He is good because of how He treats us, saving us to Himself. The gospel is about Him- He is good! And He loves us. He is no Henry Higgens. Just listen to the way he talks to us- 

"Behold, you are fair, my love!"- Song of Solomon 1:15

We are His fair lady. 

Puking, to the glory of God.

So immediately after typing this post below, I actually threw up. No joke. The churning sense of loathing, dizzying conviction and clammy sweat of urgency demanded a physical rejection. That, and I'm pretty sure the avocado I ate at midnight was bad... The irony was unreal (ever laughed at yourself while puking?) and reinforced what God is teaching me in a profound way. Confession, is like throwing up all my stuff before the Lord. The community of His church are the people walking alongside me, coming with me before our God, and holding my hair as I get this out. Things get real, you get close. It's beautiful.

The freedom and the closeness, not the puking.

 These two glaring things hit me, right in that moment:

1. At one point, this tasted good. Like- I had craved this thing that I am now puking. I had enjoyed eating it. Sin, in the moment- is delicious. Mmm I love me some tasty pride- that satisfying pat on the back or sense of accomplishment smothered in self righteousness and dipped in tangy approval. How I had smiled in seeming contentedness, unaware that in the dark murky depths of my belly lurked a poison that wants to kill me.

2. I was shocked at my hesitancy and denial. I stood outside the bathroom door, knowing what was unavoidable, and yet- I found myself trying every evasive maneuver I could think of. Maybe I just need a cold glass of water? Maybe I just need some fresh air? Perhaps I could sleep this off. What a coward. Bottom line: I HATE throwing up, and avoid it at all costs. Kinda like dealing with sin...how often I find myself trying to comfort myself and coddle the symptoms of sin into submission. How many times I've run to friends for the cold glass of water of reassurance in conversation, or stepped outside the situation at hand for a breath of fresh air, or tried to spiritually sleep through conviction, hoping it will go away on its own. Well, it doesn't. God gave my body this awesome reflux that kicks out the deadly poison in my gut, just like His Spirit works through conviction and repentance to expel the sin that's slowly killing me from the inside out. The true comfort is in getting it all out. That is where relief lives. And then, there's the comforting arms of my Savior. Who washes me, clothes me in His righteousness, and even after seeing me at my lowest point, calls me beautiful, holds me, loves me. And doesn't leave.

“Though evil is sweet in his mouth,
    though he hides it under his tongue,
though he is loath to let it go
    and holds it in his mouth,
yet his food is turned in his stomach;
    it is the venom of cobras within him.
 He swallows down riches and vomits them up again;
    God casts them out of his belly." -Job 20: 12-15


 "And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God." -1 Corinthians 6:11


p.s. Theological question: When Adam and Eve ate of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, do you think they threw up later? Just sayin.

Cultivate Beauty...?

It looked like the end of the world. Again. Pacing the warm, warped wooden floors of my guesthouse room, trying to determine if my roommate was actually asleep or was waiting to leap up and unplug my laptop again at the faintest sound of typing (way past my 1 am curfew...) I retreated to the tiny bathroom, sat on the floor, and cried out to my God.

"Ok I give up! Here I am. What do you want me to do?" 

I was dangling at the end of my rope. An odd series of events that could only happen in Thailand landed me without a kitchen, without hope and without God in the world. Not really, but it felt like it to this orphaned pastry chef. 

The upcoming week of no plans struck terror in my soul. I was armed, I was alert, I was ready to fight that accuser to the death with truth- I was so ready to do so through the baking outreach we started- and now, abruptly halted, I was erupting internally. I'm pretty sure- if someone had shot me at this point, I would have exploded sprinkles and the gospel all over the place. 

Earlier that day, my pride kicked into high gear disguised as rockstar swagger- I defiantly busted out a tiramisu on the backseat of my motorbike. Ok world! I screamed through each espresso soaked layer- if you're gonna take away my kitchen I will bake where I have to bake- nothing gonna stop this girl! Not gonna lie, it turned out awesome, and even the name, Italian for "pick me up" boasted Rosie the Riveter confidence. We can do this, I smiled as we sang Happy Birthday to one of my cooking school students. It sounded triumphant. I felt like we had just won.

And then this soft voice whispered "wrong battle, Hol." 

I was surprised. Wait-what? But it feels awesome. We did it!

And so there I was, on the floor, where I belonged- seeking my God. What began as demanding a schedule from my God, and offering my suggestions- washed over by Psalm 51 and its corresponding Jon Foreman song-melted me into tears of repentance. He moved my heart from frustration to earnest seeking, from looking for answers to looking for Him. 

"You are God. You have my attention and my life. I'm all yours. Use me. Do what You will do, and fill me with Your Spirit so that I may obey with joy." 

Pride broke. Love rushed in. It was beautiful. Peace was there. I went to sleep with a smile on my face. I really thought that it was over, and that pride was dead once and for all in my heart. Silly girl. 

It took a severed toenail, a cactus thorn deep in my heel, a debilitating fever and losing my voice to get me where He wanted me that week: stopped, still, knowing my utter dependence on Him, knowing my smallness and in awe of His strength. 

Again, another sleepless night on the bathroom floor- with open hands I cried out " I am Yours, what do you want me to do?" and He answered me:

Cultivate beauty.

Wait- what? What does that even mean? If Haight and Ashbury hosted a Beth Moore Bible study, they'd name it that. 

But that is exactly what He's been doing, in me and around me, ever since.

It's the gospel.

"I have seen the God-given task with which the sons of men are to be occupied.  He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end." -Ecclesiastes 3:10-11

To the man in the little park off the square in Brussels:

Thank you for restoring my hope in love today. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know your story or even your name, but 

Thank You. 

 

Today I sat on a bench in a lovely town square, eating frites in the darling cone with the little plastic fork- grieving recent events (suicide attempts, broken relationships, inexplicable cruelty to innocents, etc.) and wondering to myself- do people even know how to love each other anymore? My cynicism, cleverly disguised as “logic” cast its vote: nay. I thoroughly enjoyed my delicious frites and the orange sauce of genius as I thought the worst of everyone passing by. It seemed that every passing conversation was an argument, and every passing glance was a scowl. I congratulated myself on my good judgement. See, I was quietly judging people, cleverly disguised as “people watching.” Poser. Jerk. Seriously, who do I think I am? It wasn’t a satisfying activity. In all of my cynical judging, I wasn’t comforted or proud of myself. I was grieved. I ached. I really, really wanted to be proven wrong. 

And then I saw it. Something turned my gaze upward, to the top of a sizable set of stairs. In the distance, I saw a father bend over an oversize baby buggy. Crowds shuffled past, and I watched, expecting to see him hoist his little one to his shoulder and navigate the buggy down the stairs with his free hand. And I was wrong.

Carefully, tenderly, he lifted the entire buggy, which was huge (have you ever seen the Euro strollers?) and tip-toed down the lengthy staircase. It must have been over a hundred stairs. He never stopped. He never gave himself a rest from the painstaking process, ever mindful of his sleeping baby. He did not speed up towards the end as his legs buckled under the weight of the stroller, eager to reach the ground level. Cradling the giant buggy, he maintained a slow, steady pace. A long, long time later he gingerly set the buggy down. So gently, so carefully. And smiled. And then walked off, not missing a beat. 

That's what love looks like, on a sunny afternoon in Brussels. I marveled, eyes misting, and hope came rushing in. I had just seen the great lengths this father went to, forgetting himself entirely, to ensure the absolute comfort of his sleeping baby. His thought process was entirely given to his little one- his comfort or convenience never entered the equation.  He delighted in the great lengths he went to, just as he delighted in peeking under the little umbrella to ensure his baby was still sleeping. He did it well, and he did it with joy. 

I have a Father like that. I have been loved like that. And thus, I want to love, like that. But-probably with a colorful scarf wrap instead of a buggy. 

Also, in Belgium cotton candy is called "papa's beard." :) Just thought you should know. 

"He brought me out into a broad place; he rescued me, because he delighted in me." -2 Samuel 22:20

City of Dreaming Spires

A couple of months ago, around 3 am (when all truly great things happen) I was standing next to my desk, finishing up The Lady and the Peacock, (moving biography of Burma's Aung San Suu Kyi) which I had begun around midnight. I had picked up the book to pack it in my carry on to read on the plane, and couldn't resist flipping to the first page for a taste (kid on Christmas Eve...) and there I stood, in the same place-having laughed (the mental image of her biking through Oxford with her plastic bags of vegetables dangling from the handlebars-so very Asia!), wept (leaving her sleeping children in England one morning- not knowing she would not return again for decades), become enraged (at the oppression of millions of beautiful people that continues today), and marveled at how much she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. 

Earlier that day, I had re-read my favorite Lewis book, The Great Divorce, smiling in awe, remembering how nearly two years ago my awesome God had given me this book from a perfect stranger, when I needed it most. And how, in His awesomeness, the messenger became not a stranger, and (beautifully) not perfect. 

And now, He's leading me into another adventure. I was honestly reluctant to move forward. I don't understand. I don't see. My heart yearns for beloved friends on the opposite sides of the world. I weep for injustice, and I want to fight against it with everything in me. I'd like to dig in my heels and stop everything until I can figure this out, or- go backwards in search of reason, sense, understanding. But the Hand I'm holding gently pulls me forward. 

My little hands have been outstretched, open for over a year. I've been waiting for doors marked "Thailand" "Cambodia" "Uganda" to open. I've deeply enjoyed and grown from every day spent in California. I've sat in silence and I've listened- (Ok, so there's been a fair share of frustrated beseeching, doubting questioning, outright demands and other unpleasant behavior along the way; but ultimately- I'm not the one driving...) and I never did put my suitcases away.

He knows what He is doing with me, and how He is using all of these things to shape me for His purposes, and my good. In May it was Osaka, Japan. One brave night, around 3 am, I decided to be fearless: I applied for a summer semester at Oxford University. I wrote 3 application essays that morning, giddy and laughing at the ridiculousness, sitting on the floor in my friend Tomomi's apartment. The sun came up and I clicked send. We laughed more and ate popcorn for breakfast. 

And then, a few days later, an unexpected door swung wide open. England. Seriously? Did not see that one coming. God knows I long to sit on dirt floors in remote villages in countries I already love. I don't see all He is doing right now, but I know this is where I am supposed to be now, and there's no better place to be in the world than that. My wonderings are calmed by His assurance: This is part of it. I've got you. 

And now, I'm sitting in my dorm in the garden courtyard of beautiful Trinity College at Oxford- where C.S. Lewis roamed, and (last week!) Aung San Suu Kyi finally accepted her honorary degree. 

I had no idea this was in the plan as I read those books that day, but He knew the prerequisite reading all along.

Like months ago when He gave me this verse:

‎"I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love...you have set my feet in a broad place."-Psalm 31:7-8

He took my feet...

...and set them on Broad Street, Oxford, Oxfordshire, England. 

Humbled. Thankful for this amazing opportunity. I'm in awe of the beauty of His plans and timing. I'm in awe of Him.

This isn't it. There's more. There's Him. He loves me. 

It will soon be 3 am. I am peering out my centuries old window into an unfamiliar, starry sky. Underneath my window, even though I can't see it right now in the temporary dark- is a beautiful gate that swings wide open.

I'm in. Here we go.

Love the sin you're in.

It's that annoying soap commercial that gets stuck in your head forever.  It rang through my thoughts today, thinking how everything in our culture tells us to be comfortable in our own sin. To accept it. To tolerate it. To delight in it. To celebrate it. To feed it.

I shudder. I loathe sin. When I see it in me, it makes me nauseated. (Wondering if the word abhor has kind of a vomiting rejection implication?) I run to Jesus like a little kid in footsie pajamas running into her parent's room because she's going to throw up. (Holding fast!)  I need Him like that. It's an emergency, and it needs to come out. I know that I will be safe in His arms, and find relief, comfort and healing for my soul. And I know that He loves me and accepts me, all whiney and crying and covered in puke, just the same.

"Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good."Romans12:9

Love the sin I'm in? This is the same flesh that is at enmity against our God who is Love. It is this sin that separates me from Perfect Love. Sin isn't cute.  And it's in me. This morning alone, I caught thoughts of utter selfishness, defensive pride and smug self righteousness that so shocked me, I dropped my car keys and they fell under my car. I had to get on my knees to get them back, which is probably where I needed to be anyway. I love that the Holy Spirit is so good to convict me of sin, so I can turn to Jesus and be washed and live in the freedom He died to secure for me. And yet, I am always sad. I am grieved over my sin- how it separates me from my God and from others, how it destroys relationships. I thought we were through with all that! I thought we killed it. It's back. It's a fight that I will keep on fighting, the lifelong war of my flesh against His Spirit. The war that only Christ can win, and has already won. And I long for the days to come, of peace, and free from the disgusting presence of sin, in the beautiful presence of Christ. I love that skin.

^" So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!" Romans 7:21-25a

Osaka Icarus (true story.)

I first saw it over my shoulder, out of the corner of my eye, through the greyly quiet buildings of Osaka, Japan. A rounded face of fire peeking between two sky scrapers, smiling at us.It’s brilliance melted a tear and prompted a reflexive utterance of awe: wow. Sights like this cause tired shoppers heading home to turn the car around; illegally, abruptly, wholeheartedly. Pointed westward we turned our gaze upon it for long stretches at stoplights, until our eyes burned and the dim light turned green. It drew us to itself, a warmly glowing peach, dangling ripely over the sea from invisible boughs. The dinner left uncooked was gladly and unanimously abandoned as we gave ourselves to this pursuit. We were much more hungry to make it to the shore.  

A dozen blocks stood between us and the sea, with train tracks that demanded stopping. Umbrellad pedestrians pushing strollers meandered at afternoon speeds, unaware of the show and with a “lack of urgency” that would cause my Marine-trained sous chef to take a slow breath and purse his lips into a tight line that terrifies me to action still. Each block left us more reckless. Tomomi hadn’t driven like this since her sense of urgency was caused by about a liter and a half of hoijicha tea. We drove towards that sunset like a carful of girls searching for a bathroom, and every time we slammed on the brakes it hurt as our hearts lurched forward, aching like bladders about to explode. 

Our conversation was like a song, little exclamations of awe in different accents and tones- It glowed with longing as we trekked on in delight. Looking down the stretch of road, I sized up the distance and wondered if we should hit the emergency flashers and make a run for it. I couldn’t think of a better emergency for which to make use of that triangle button. I could hear the water now, through the rolled down window, and I saw the bright beautiful golden globe glowing and I missed it. Now just two blocks away, I ached. The promise of green lights and the visible shore beckoned us come, and I felt sure I would soon be standing under its glow as it splashed into the horizon. 

How dare that cloud hide it, and how dare the light turn red. We waited forever at that light,and it felt cruel- to be so strongly drawn and then kept away. Where does this hopeful longing go, if not to the beach? Cool waves of disappointment and loneliness lapped up on our souls in that stopped car as the sun sank into the water, entirely hidden by clouds. 

I don’t get it. 

I turned toward Tomo and her face was still aglow, just from looking into the sun. I felt it’s warmth on my face, too. We went home in the dark, porcelain newly aware of our fragility, and without the relief of our cherished hopes realized. God, I don’t think I can live in this perpetual urgency, wanting, everlonging of the soul. It was just a moment- barely a moment- but so breathlessly beautiful I turned my heart inside out trying to get there in time. Silly girl, falling in love with a setting sun. 

Comfort reminded me that morning is on the other side of this night, that it won’t always be like this-dark. Hope reminded me of a place with no need for sun, and I longed for it more. And so I will live my days, in this longing. Compelled. I’m gonna turn the car sunward, and floor it until I reach the beach and the sun goes down. I’m gonna laugh and talk melodiously of it as our hearts are stirred, and we will run until our faces glow. I will encourage pedestrians along the Way to lay down their umbrellas and glance upward into the spectacular light over their shoulders. God- how I love that sunset! I smile at my freckles-sun kisses. I cherish them, but I’m homesick for the sunless glowing sky I’ve never seen. I blink, and that white spot is still burned into my vision-from staring into the sun. Everywhere I look, I see it still. And I get it.

 Like- I’m gonna get it, one dayless day. 

And by it, I mean You.  


"For from the rising of the sun to its setting my name will be great among the nations, and in every place incense will be offered to my name, and a pure offering. For my name will be great among the nations, says the LORD of hosts." -Malachi 1:11


"The sun shall be no more your light by day, nor for brightness shall the moon
    give you light;but the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory. Your sun shall no more go down,nor your moon withdraw itself;
for the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended." -Isaiah 60:19-20 

Turn right here...left.

A friend recently asked me what it looks like when you feel God is calling you to do something and you make that choice to act on it in the moment. What goes on in our minds? What goes on in our hearts? I had no idea, and out of curiosity purposed to keep mental notes the next time I was aware of it happening, and track the process. It is not pretty. But it is real. Here is a novice attempt at recording the thoughts of my foolish mind and wicked heart when they were confronted by their Creator last week. If you respond to this by being paralyzed with fear of making a wrong decision, or flippantly enchanted by a fairytale God who sprinkles magic dust on all our purposeless wanderings- I have failed. My prayer is that all of our hearts would more quickly bow in awe before a sovereign God and follow His voice with uninhibited joy.

I never thought the familiar clicking of a turn signal could sound so much like a bomb ready to explode any second.

How did I get myself into this?

It all started that morning, and it was a Friday. One of those rare California days where it was chill enough to know it is winter, and sunny enough to remind you that it won't always be. I had the day off of work unexpectedly and I sat in my parked car, contemplating what to do with the suddenly empty day before me. I wish I could say that my thoughts were the easy, giddy ones that should come with the gift of a glorious day to use as one wishes. However, this gift came to me while I was still reeling from the last unexpected turn of events. I was weary from many days of what can only be described as grief- relentless waves of shock, sadness, loss, uncertainty, disappointment, doubt-and the nagging knowing in my gut that something is not right and there is nothing I can do about it.

I've been on "time out"- as I affectionately named this season of waiting God has chosen for my good this past year. It is not my favorite place. It is, however, an incredibly humbling place. It is a beautiful place, if you don't mind beauty with a healthy dose of agony on the side. In this season my Lord has lovingly chipped away at my pride by suspending my career and education endeavors, tamed my overly independent spirit through illness and humbled me by providing this year of living with my parents, and is teaching me His love through my own broken heart. Meanwhile, the enemy has taken every opportunity to rob God's glory in this by lying to me constantly. Like what? You are worthless. You are fading. You are lazy. You are wasting your life. You're getting rusty and will never be useful again. You are a big disappointment. God has forgotten you. You are in big trouble. You are unloveable. You are insincere. You're a joke.

Lies must be constantly fought against with Truth. Only, lately I have caught myself agreeing with the liar instead of killing the lies. Fragility of spirit will do that to you. Don't let it.

See, there is another voice that says "You are mine." Listen to this one- it never lies. It cries out from the depths of my soul, affirming who I am. (Romans 8:14-17)

These were the thoughts going through my mind as I contemplated how I'd spend my day. Usually it is not difficult for me to jump into many exciting and delightful activities, but creativity is one of the first casualties of grief. I leaned my head on the steering wheel and cried out to the One who has never left my side. "hey- I don't know what to do today. Surely there are things you want to accomplish in Santa Rosa today. Use me." And then I went to get gas.

Music blaring - (Lecrae- nothing like the spoken Word to pierce through the vague fog of lies) my heart began to warm and melt and dripped down my cheeks. Fear began to subside, and the deep longing of my soul grew louder as I sat in awe of the God who perpetually pursues me with His love. I pulled into the gas station. Pumped the gas. Pulled out and began to make a right hand turn. This street is one of the busiest in Santa Rosa, and it is nearly impossible to make a left. As I hit the brakes, I heard a small voice

Turn left.

What? No. That's a bad idea. That has to be my own voice. I am imagining things. I really need to sleep better at night. Seriously, God is not going to talk to me while I drive my car out of the gas station. Who do I think I am anyway?

Turn left.

It was not audible- but a knowing. It was familiar, insistent, and it was strong. That's just crazy. I reached out and flicked the blinker- left. And sat. I watched the traffic in front of me in an unending barrage. I waited. Even if I would have wanted to cut someone off, there wasn't even an opportunity for that. Cars began to pile up behind me. I waited. They became impatient.

Seriously, God. I'm going right. This was a bad idea. My heart lurched as it recognized this vulnerable situation. Still bruised and bleeding, it begged me to run and protect myself. Did I really believe that the voice of God had instructed me to make a left hand turn? Here I was, stepping out on a limb- utterly exposed, looking like a fool- waiting for something that was ridiculous to hope for-again. People in their cars behind me were probably not hearing the same instructions, and they wanted out. I half expected someone to walk up to my window and punch me in the face.

The right lane was beautifully open before me. I began to think of things to do on that right side. Silly things, things to pass time while I waited for God to tell me what to do with this day. Part of me didn't believe He ever would, that I'd be stuck in the Twilight Zone fog of frustrated uncertainty forever. I felt sorry for myself. I scolded myself for feeling sorry for myself. And I waited. It became uncomfortably long. I reached the end of my rope. I was certain something was going to break. I almost turned right.

But I didn't. Something held me there- wanting to believe even after I'd reached the end of myself. I felt like an absolute fool. And I waited.

And then I looked up, and right in front of me was a black car with my friend "Jane" in it. I have been praying for her for months, and somehow we kept missing each other. I honked. She waved excitedly. Windows rolled down, greetings were exchanged. Traffic began to move- "I'm going to Target! Follow me!"

and then there was a perfect gap in traffic, and I made a left hand turn.

I can't quite explain the meeting up of old friends that happened, the conversation walking the aisles at Target, and what exactly happened to my thought process and my heart with each step. Both of us had each other on the mind that day. She had just seen a car that looked like mine, but I wasn't in it. I had just been thinking about her, since she used to live across the street from the gas station. I also can't explain the other friend I ran into in the parking lot as I was texting her. We had lunch, another great conversation, and we prayed.

It could have just been fun conversations, casual girly stuff. But it wasn't. Within the space of that day, I got to see the fruit of years of prayer. I learned about a much longed for baby on the way that doctors bet couldn't happen. I saw stubborn hearts softened, and made up minds changed. One of them was mine. And it recognized the voice of its Maker, and followed.

As I lay in bed that night, contemplating a God so big coordinating all of these domino divine appointments in His perfect timing, I worshipped Him in awe. Who am I to doubt what He is working in my life through this season? Hadn't I been praying for Him to melt away pride, and to know His voice? To be quite honest, at one point during the day, the accuser showed up again, and my futile thinking cried out "I didn't accomplish anything today..." And then the voice of my God whispered back " I did." Wow. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I don't know how or when exactly it happened, but out of that day and through those conversations, my heart was stirred. I knew what is at the bottom of my heart, the depths of my soul- those longings that God created in me for Himself. I am His. Pure joy. And the accompanying longing for others to know this for themselves, too. Vision for how to practically live that out became clear. I don't "know what I'm going to do with my life" in an SAT essay format, but I know the voice of my God, and I am confident to follow it, no matter how long I wait with my blinker on, and how uncomfortable and foolish I feel. I want Him more.

See, I'm no hero. I'm in love. And you do crazy things when you're in love. I fail, I doubt, I wrestle with my own thoughts- He reveals truth and takes me back- every time. I weep, I laugh- am thankful to know Him and make Him known, and I look forward to these adventures everyday. I don't know what would have happened if I had turned right. And of this, I am glad.

Isaiah 30:21

"And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying 'This is the way, walk in it' when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left."

*if you have a minute, read Isaiah 30- what happens when we don't ask for directions- beautiful illustration of His mercy, restoration and justice to a rebellious people- Israel (us.)