And hope doesn't disappoint us

I was going to read the Bible tonight. I got to my room, ready to settle in, and then I realized that I left the Book and my journal in my car. Oh well. I wasn’t that determined. I wish I could be.

I visited REI for the first time post-Seattle today. I was wearing my Sounders scarf as I often do in hopes of running into someone who might know them or where they’re from. It worked. An employee asked if I was a Sounders fan. I lied and said I used to be, before I moved here. It was a resentful tone in my voice, one to make the demon on my shoulder proud. She told me she used to live there, just moved in fact. I halted my movement toward the flannel shirts to extend this worthy dialogue. Me too. She asked how I was adjusting. Not well. She agreed. 

I asked how she ended up in Chicago. Turns out, she’s originally from here. Just. Like. Me. We left the conversation encouraging each other and echoing back and forth,  “it’s going to get better.” “It’s going to get better.” “It’s going to get better.”

But what if it doesn’t.

I ask myself, what is it about the Northwest that holds me so captive. The trees, the water, the mountains. The people, the culture, the churches. The beauty, the weather, the smell. The coffee, the freighters, the houses built on hills. The sunsets. The ministry. My relationships, my history, my growth. My mistakes, my progress, my faith. My story. It’s all there.

I like to think I could get on and be okay without those things. Only time will tell. But what I cannot get past or recover from, what makes me cling to even the worst times in that city, and leaves me totally desperate to return is that I just don’t know how to love God in Chicago like I loved Him in Seattle.

I don’t know how to read the Bible here. I don’t know how to pray here. I don’t know how to talk about God here.  Or sing worship. Or journal. I don’t know how to serve. I am a different person here.

And I should have seen this coming. Every break, every weekend I returned home the past decade, was so barren. So fruitless in our relationship. Everything was on pause until I could go back. I imagine it like a relationship with periods of time in which the distance is too great for it to progress and there’s no possible communication. Wouldn’t that hold a heart hostage? Of course, it’s not like that at all because, no, God doesn’t only exist in Malibu and, no, he doesn’t only exist in Burien—even if it is the center of the universe.

It’s embarrassing. I used to preach, ‘God is home.’ No matter where we are, God is home. But I don’t know how to live that. I still believe it.  I just don’t know how to let Him be that for me. But I’m going to figure it out. It may take a couple years, and I may be starting all over again, taking huge leaps backward, and re-growing in every possible way, but I’m going to figure it out. And at the end of all this, if I can love God here like I used to—here, without the mountains, the water, the trees, the hills, the coffee, the weather, the smell, the sunsets, the people—if I can love God here like I used to, then someone needs to write a book about it or at the very least, a romantic film.

If not, I guess I can always move back--that's usually what they do in the movies anyway.

Goodnight, Seattle. I'll Miss The Coffees.

I imagine the credits start rolling as I hit the I-90 bridge across Lake Washington. The camera pulls out and my car gets lost with all the others as NEEDTOBREATHE’s Keep Your Eyes Open socks you right in the gut. And then you wonder, can anything ever compare to what you’ve just been a part of? The obvious answer is no, but then again, who would have ever expected it in the first place?

They told me I had ten days to decide. I sat in in the courtyard of the Student Union on the University of Illinois campus. I had just been offered a job. I only showed up that day to have a break from student teaching. I had signed in and was ready to leave the job fair when I found a circle of friends at its entrance. I listened to their experiences with several prospective employers. Then Matt came over and joined the bunch. He was a fellow secondary math hopeful. They asked me how it had been going. I told them I was just there to sign in and leave. There was no one at the fair I was interested in talking to—Seattle and Portland were not represented.  Matt corrected me and said he just spoke to Seattle, and they’re very nice. He asked if I wanted to go meet them. “Nahh, no I’m not ready.” Four tries later, he grabbed my arm and dragged me over to their table. I hate when people do that. He introduced me and then left.

And so there I was. Sitting in a booth, explaining on the phone to my brother and dad what just happened. We couldn’t find out much about the Highline School District. I tried to google pictures and news stories, but what it really came down to was that I could be done with the search and no longer have to worry about finding a job out west. I think I called on the ninth day. The following June I was placed at Highline High School. I can’t believe I did that.

I came out here with a cell phone. That’s it. I had to rent time with computers at coffee shops to try and find target stores and directions to school. What was I thinking? I only meant it to be two years, but then God got involved. And you know very well, He writes the good stories. And so I let Him. The next four years He trusted me with a group of kids that would soon change the way I love, the way I look at myself, and the way I worship. He trusted me with relationships that would change my adventure into my home. He introduced me to people who would mold me in a permanent way—friends who spend the day packing up your house and fitting it into a mini-van, kids who show up just to help you clean, and family that welcomes you into their home even though you woke them up very early in the morning. 

These good people. 

If I hadn’t left, I never would have seen this. I never would have known what He is capable of building. He trusted me with so much that maybe now I can trust Him a little more. And I think that’s why I have to do this—why I have to leave.

There is love here. No doubt. It’s healed me. There is truth here. It’s freed me. There is faith here. It’s mellowed me. But I’m ready to feel awkward, pushed, and a little scared again. I’m ready to see what He’s going to write this time. 

Rattlesnake Ledge June 2, 2012

If God really is who He says He is, then I don’t want to live in a cloud. 

It was a rainy Saturday morning, but I’m hardcore so I got up anyway and headed to the popular Rattlesnake Ledge. Most people refer to it as Rattlesnake Ridge, but that’s not what the sign says. The parking lot had enough cars to feel comfortable and few enough to not feel annoyed.

You have to walk a rocky path to get to the trailhead, but on the way you meet Rattlesnake Lake. It feels like a scene out of Lord of the Rings. You can see remnants of the Ents after the battle for middle earth. It’s weird.

The rain let up as I began to climb or maybe the trees just took over. Either way, I was reasonably dry. The trail is nothing too interesting beyond the lake, unless of course, you’re with a good friend. It was a beautiful forest when I took time to lift my head and look. I was working my way up another switchback and then it happened. Everything became so much clearer, so much better. I turned around and looked back at where I had come from.  It was complete mist and fog. I had been walking through a cloud, and I didn’t even know it. To me, everything seemed right and beautiful, just as it should have been. I had no idea how wrong I was until the path cleared up.

After standing there for a few minutes amazed at what just happened, I began to think about how we don’t realize when things become foggy on our walk with God until we go to a place like Malibu, hear an uncomfortable sermon, experience a tear-jerking quiet-time, or take a hike. Then you look back and see what you were doing—living in a cloud. I had just visited Malibu earlier in the week. The experience was unreal for me. I felt more myself than anywhere, anytime in my life. It’s so clear up there. This hike was reminding me of it. It was telling me not to go back to who I was. It’s hard though because most of the time, you don’t even realize you’re pretending until He gives you another moment. But then again, knowing Him, maybe we just need to ask.

Show & Tell

I bought a pair of sweatpants in May. I’ve worn them every day since then. I wear them to bed, I wear them out, I wear them if I can get away with wearing them. If you’ve seen me in the past month, then you probably know what I’m talking about. I haven’t washed them yet either. That’s not the shocker, though. Written down the left pant leg in giant purple letters is the word “HUSKIES”. Has your jaw dropped yet? Thought I’d never wear something even once advertising the dawgs, and now, here I am, doing it every day. In fact, not only did I refuse to assume loyalty, but I became a hater. What’s happened to me?

The last week of school we had show & tell in AVID. Each student brought in something that was important and explained the story of its existence to the class. Nothing they showed was especially monetarily valuable—nothing super impressive when given a first glance—nothing I would pick out of a dumpster. Yet, each day a presenter would struggle through a story while wiping away tears. A set of keys, a basketball, a wallet, a half torn piece of paper—somehow these worthless things became symbols of resilience, reconciliation, relationship, and freedom. The class would become silent as we realized we were being let into a special moment in another’s life—one we could never know without being told. Really this show and tell wasn’t at all about the things each kid brought in, it was about the memory it allowed them to share.

I bought a pair of sweatpants in May. I bought them after I had made a big decision. They say “HUSKIES” down the left pant leg, and I feel at home when I wear them. Part of me thinks I should save them for later, but I can’t. I want to live in them. When I think of all they represent, I wipe away tears. Behind them is a story of transformation, integration, and relationships. They reflect countless memories of a god being so faithful to his daughter and a promise that his faithfulness never grows shallow.  They will remind me to remember this, and they will push me to continue because if we continue to lean, He will continue to dazzle.

You probably wouldn’t pick them out of a dumpster, but six years ago I wouldn’t have either.