The revival at Asbury has been at the forefront of my mind these last few days. With such recent memories, my mind’s eye can see the happenings in a way that makes them far more real than they could have been otherwise. When I close my eyes, my senses snap back to that place, and I am there again.
These last few days have been a journey of coming to know that the revival I have spoken prayers for in recent years is not the one happening across the country… Though I thought I was praying for something to happen in general, quiet time spent in reflection this afternoon has shown me that God has a far more specific plan than I could have ever dreamed.
Just as I couldn’t have foreseen the impact of my time at the Abbey a few weeks ago, leaning into the hope of experiencing God’s presence in my recliner, in a quiet house, on an ordinary Saturday was not where I thought he would make himself known. I wanted to drive to the revival, to feel the wind that people are speaking of, to see the crowd, and know that God was there.
Instead, a still, small voice beckoned me into a private knowledge of the same. I spent time with God in a very tangible way today. My heart knew the same presence that I encountered at the Abbey, and nothing pressing was pulling me away this time. So, I stayed. I read and prayed. I wept and sat quietly. I believed that God could meet me here… and he did.
Learning to lean in is hard work. Trusting that he is in both the silence and the sound is a process… but God showed up, and I am changed.
What a day…
I love you, friends! 💜💜💜
Love never stops loving.
It extends beyond the gift of prophecy, which eventually fades away.
It is more enduring than tongues, which will one day fall silent.
Love remains long after words of knowledge are forgotten.
Our present knowledge and our prophecies are but partial,
but when love’s perfection arrives, the partial will fade away.
…
Until then, there are three things that remain:
faith, hope, and love—yet love surpasses them all.
So above all else, let love be the beautiful prize for which you run.
It’s been a little over a week since I was at the Abbey. After brunch with my cousin, I went to Wilmore, Kentucky, to visit a friend at Asbury Theological Seminary. We walked around the campus there, then crossed over to the campus of Asbury University. She took me to the chapel and told me about the revival that happened in 1970 and to the alumni space sharing with me the incredible history of the schools. We talked about many things; past, present, and future.
Coming home was a long drive with a lot to think about.
I contemplated the journey into the woods, remembering how often I thought I wouldn’t make it, how many times my hope faltered when the statue wasn’t there… Over and over, I replayed the journey, thinking of how many times I was tempted to just give up.
In the last week, I have come to believe that I needed that journey through the woods to prepare for things I didn’t even know were happening. Arriving home to a crisis was off-putting, and I just wanted to run back to the woods, back to Kentucky, back to the dream of what could be. But I quit running years ago.
Facing what was in front of me, I spent several days putting one foot in front of the other. Determining to trust my God and myself when I wasn’t sure who else was trustworthy, I further resolved to continue the work laid before me when I accepted the call to ministry. And then I found myself remembering who I am… who I have worked hard to get to know…
Heading into meetings this past weekend was a lot like that hike through the woods. My heart was racing, I was out of breath, and most of the day, I wasn’t sure I would make it… I kept pushing, though. Something inside told me that a breakthrough was coming… that Jesus was just around the next corner. Near the end of the day, two paths showed up. Neither looked terribly hopeful.
But my gut told me I needed to try.
It was so much different than in the woods. This kind of trying required me to trust someone… to trust that past experiences do not dictate future outcomes. And so I leaned into the uncomfortable because how can I ask others to do it if I don’t myself.
At the end of the day, I found myself back at home, sitting in a comfortable chair, wondering how the whole day had gone by without anything horrific happening. I had to will my body to stop vibrating, to release the anxious tears that hadn’t been needed… to remind my physical body, my intellectual mind, my emotional heart, and my spiritual being that sometimes good things happen… and that I can survive those, too.
I’m a whole mess of a person some days. Over and over, I keep reminding myself that it’s okay to not be done becoming yet. And it is… because I’m still going. Maybe I’m doing it scared, maybe I think I’m going to die on the way, maybe the path is way longer than I planned it to be. But I’m still moving; the signs keep appearing, and I believe a Savior is waiting in a clearing not far ahead.
I went to the Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky, yesterday. I heard about it from a musician that I have listened to for a long time by way of a song that has really resonated in recent years. Since I would be traveling right by there anyway, I planned a visit.
The song talks about a statue of Jesus on a knoll in the hills, and I thought I had done enough research to be able to find it. There were signs and paths, and surely it wouldn’t take too long. I was supposed to meet my cousin for brunch afterward, and I didn’t want to be late.
So, I got to the Abbey and parked at the trailhead. One sign, one trail, and pavers to mark the way. I walked into the woods, determined to find that statue. The first indication I might not have known what I was getting into was a footbridge across a small ditch. Not so small that I could jump it. Deep enough and muddy enough that I would have to trust this bridge. But it was so narrow… and there was only a rail on one side. I was not at all confident that I would make it across, but I had to try. Setting one foot on it initially, I found it quite sturdy, and I went quickly across.
I made it to a clearing with a lake in it and took a deep breath. I love water. There was runoff from the lake, making a small stream that created a soothing trickling sound. The sky was bright blue. Ice crystals formed beautiful patterns on the surface of the water. If I didn’t have somewhere to be, this would have been a perfect place to spend a morning. But the statues beckoned… and beyond them, brunch. I had to keep moving.
Across the small dam, there was a sudden rise. Stairs were provided, but they were steep and intimidating. At the bottom of them was another sign, though, telling me that what I sought was that direction. Having survived the bridge, I resolved that they were likely safe and set off, believing with all my heart that I would find the statue I was looking for at the top of them.
But, alas… at the top were more trees, another path, and in the distance… another sign. I walked on, seeing other statues along the way. There were a variety of them… different subjects, sizes, and materials. But nothing even remotely what I was looking for.
Periodically, the trail would turn, and I would hope against hope that I was about to find the right knoll. Time was getting short, and I was no longer sure I could get to the statue and still get back to my van in time to get to brunch. Having missed so many years with my cousin, I did not want to be late and miss even one more minute.
I wrestled with my mind at every sign, every incline… I was tired and out of breath… And the statue was nowhere to be found. More than once, I stopped to breathe and wondered if I was really even in the right place. Maybe this wasn’t the right monastery or the right trail… maybe I was all wrong, and this was a waste of time.
Continuing to climb, my mind tried and tried to tell me that I wasn’t going to make it, that I was too out of shape, that I had slept in too late, that it was silly to keep pushing just to see a statue. I just kept walking. I had to believe that I could get there…
Finally, ahead there was a break in the trees. Another statue, this time of Mary, with a small sign beside her that said, “Pray, pray, pray.” This time two paths were going from the clearing. And the sign that told me to continue to the statues was between them. No arrows. Just an indication that I was still not there.
Looking down both paths, I couldn’t see anything that told me which way to go. No statues. Dwindling hope. Tolling cloister bells from the monastery told me that my time was up. I had to leave to be able to get to brunch… and I figured the cause was lost. I turned back the way I came, but something stopped me.
I could hear the song in my head. I’d been singing it under my breath as I hiked through the forest. I just knew I would regret it if I gave up. Choosing a path, I set off again, almost running to see if I could still find the statue and make it back to the van in time.
Just a few steps down the path, though, something stopped me. I looked around and looked back. Nothing was different. I still didn’t know where to go. But something told me this was wrong. Trusting my gut, I jogged back to the split and turned in the other direction.
Moving quickly up another hill, I came to a bench looking out into a clearing. The sun had just risen above the trees, and a frosty sheen was on the open field. In the distance I could just see the tops of the monastery buildings. At any other time, I would have stopped to sit and be still. Today, though, I had to press on.
As I walked past the bench, the trail turned back into the trees. I looked in to see if it was even worth continuing, and I caught my breath.
There in front of me was a statue. Larger than any of the ones that had come before. Not Jesus, but the disciples, lying asleep just inside the tree line. My heart was racing as my eyes looked farther in, wondering if I was finally coming to the place I had been seeking.
And suddenly… I saw Jesus.
The verse in the song that brought me to this place says:
There’s a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He’s kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping, and He’s weeping all alone
It was exactly as described. Sunny but cold. So quiet. Only the sound of the leaves under my feet. And Jesus wasn’t weeping alone this day. I was so relieved to have found him that tears streamed down my face as I walked closer.
The next part of the song moved through my mind…
And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought
I hadn’t forgotten that I didn’t have long but to stop and recognize that this statue, this man, my God, already knew in that moment so very long ago what sorrows I would carry. He wept for them that night… and he was alone then so that I didn’t have to be alone here this morning.
I quickly took some pictures… recorded some video… I stored the moment up in my heart, hoping against hope that I could hold onto the truths I had learned on the journey.
And I turned to go meet my cousin… knowing that the aching of this life will never leave, but the breaking has ended.
On our last evening by the ocean, we managed to make it to the beach to see the end of the sunset.
I spent several hours by the water this morning, too. Just something about the sand underfoot and the waves crashing in brings peace. This trip has been full of time to reflect and contemplate what is next.
While I’m still not positive about that, this week has offered a new outlook with little glimpses of hope coming into view. Perspective has shifted…
As the world around me keeps moving, I feel more and more prepared to make decisions well. Not that I will always do so… but even in that knowledge, there is grace.
My prayer these days is that I will continue to grow in a healthier direction. That I will be confident in who I am now, able to respond from reality instead of history. And that I will love well, whether with boundaries or hugs.
I’ve been talking about the night sky and pinpoints of hope in several different circles lately… It’s been a recurring theme that has just kept coming up. So tonight’s excursions became a visual representation of hope to me.
I love the stars… and seeing how many there are while standing in the cold wind, smelling the ocean, and feeling like there is something bigger than me at work right now was an excellent way to end a not great day.
See, I love to travel. Being with people doing hard things all over the country (or on the other side of the world) and supporting them in whatever way I can is such an incredible experience. But it never fails that something at home will fall apart when I’m gone, causing me to consider whether I could have prevented it and where my responsibility really lies. It’s been a journey to come to a place where I can accept that I’m not a bad parent for leaving home sometimes. I’m not a bad wife for doing things beyond the house. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s wrong… often, it is just the opposite.
Breathing in the cold air, hearing the waves, feeling the spray, and looking up at the stars… I’m struck by the fact that the darkness connects the stars. They aren’t wired together behind the sky. It is just scattered light points out there in the blanket of night.
Hope feels like that to me. Random… Flung across the universe… with darkness seeming to be far more plentiful.
And yet, I will focus on hope. Because in those points are beautiful stories just waiting to be discovered.
This morning, I dropped Beverly off at her intensive and found a quiet beach.
Don’t worry… I didn’t fall in again.
I did spend a longer time than I planned to just watching the waves and listening to the silence that comes when the world around me stops. Nothing started playing in my mind. Not a to do list, or a voicemail, or even a song… it was just the wind and the waves stilling the internal noise.
From there, I went to see friends. Many who have become the family of my heart are on this side of the country and I was so thankful to get to see several at once before sneaking into an actual church service at New Season Church of Ventura… walking in just in time to catch Pastor Rafael preach.
Oof. What a word. God has certainly used pastor’s proclamations from pulpits to drive home his points lately. Pastor Tammy has left me rattling things around the last few weeks and today the call to extravagant love carried forward to my time here and Raf’s message this morning.
No matter how afraid I am, how unqualified I feel, or what might go wrong… I must choose to obey.
I left church and headed to Serra Cross Park. The waves that were big enough to pull me down yesterday looked much smaller from here… Time and perspective make a big difference. Funny how that works, huh?
Being removed enough to see the big picture makes it harder to shut out the extra noise, though… closer to the waves may be riskier, but being right there fosters a stillness that isn’t easily replicated from a distance. There’s a middle to be found, I think. Balance…
The Midwest has always been home, but the ocean beckons… the far edges of this country pull me toward the water to wrestle with the waves and find all that is worth fighting for.
I went to a very different kind of church today… Listening to the music of creation, joining with the family of God in fellowship, stretching to take in the challenge of the proclaimed Word…
This is what I believe heaven will be like. Creation. Connection. Communion.
I got to go to the ocean today. It has been so long since I’ve gotten to enjoy the waves that I had all but forgotten the way the sound of them crashing can wipe away worry in much the same way as they wash away footprints on the beach.
Listening to the water, exploring the sand, examining the rocks… my original child was so enjoying life that I momentarily forgot to watch for the waves. And suddenly, I was in the water. A wave had come up quickly and washed the sand out from under my feet. In my surprise, I scrambled to escape the inevitable and instead dropped my phone, lost my shoe, and was momentarily disoriented from the cold of the water.
It took just a second for me to grab all my pieces before the wave carried anything out. And then I heard a voice asking if I was okay. On this rainy day, the beach had been all but deserted… until it wasn’t. After he made sure I was good, he told me it probably didn’t help because I hadn’t gotten to see it, but he did the same thing a few days ago. And it actually did help.
As I got my sense back and put my shoe back on, I took inventory of the day. While swimming hadn’t been on the agenda (especially not in my only pair of jeans), there was nothing pressing pulling me from the beach now.
So, I stayed. I walked on the sand for a while, watching the waves chase the foam to shore. I even wandered back down onto the rocks and was caught by a few more waves. No others knocked my feet from under me, though. And the fact that the one that did managed to only enhanced the enjoyment of the time there was an interesting realization.
I’m thankful for the balance in which I’m learning to live. And for the skills to know that being knocked down does not have to ruin a life… the waves only have the power you give them.
Take a deep breath. Imagine the smell of the salt water. Hear the squawk of the gulls. Feel the sand shifting under your feet. But don’t fret. Even if you get a little damp, it’s just a reason to linger longer.
I watched the sunrise in Phoenix this morning. This is one of my favorite places to do that. It’s strange to think that it was almost four full years ago when I was here for the first time.
Now, though it is just a stop on the way to somewhere new as I continue discovering where God is leading, a layover here provides time to be grateful for time to meet my original child at the beginning of a new adventure.
Every year at the beginning of November, I am confronted with the passing of time, the reality of aging, and the importance of living with intention. Last year, I was also confronted by the shadows that still existed inside me. In a group of people I am so blessed to now call friends, I was faced with the choice to dive in or run away. Choosing to take the leap made the difference of a lifetime.
I was up before the sun this morning to drive to work in a different town. Along the way, I read some (or had read to me, at least), I prayed a lot, I considered many things… and as I watched the sky lighten, the reality of how dark it can get just before dawn hit differently.
There have been several days in the last month when darkness made a move to take over. The voice of shame spoke so loudly that I could not seem to quiet it… and the balance I have worked so hard to attain felt somewhat tenuous. Most recently, as I approached a meeting yesterday, I was struggling to breathe. Panic set in as I sat in the parking lot, deciding whether or not to run…
I didn’t run… I do my best not to anymore. I went in scared. And God was there.
As I drove back and forth across the state today, I was grateful. Having spent the day connecting with God, with friends, with myself… I’m ready for another year. Not because it will be easy. More because the abundant blessings and sacred companions far outweigh the difficulties.
I’ve been a bit blocked since getting home. For over a month, I have been working through issues surrounding shifts in the interpersonal relationships closest to my heart. The grief that comes with those changes has been complicated. I wish I could say it’s getting more straightforward, and that’s why I am writing again… But the reality is that I am writing with the aim of working out what it looks like to incorporate this grief into the continuation of life. I’m writing because not writing is letting the grief win.
It’s a complex thing to lose someone without losing them, an ambiguous loss that is difficult to assimilate. I can only pray that in time the fog will clear and hope that restoration might be possible.
In the meantime, there has been much confirmation of God’s guidance since returning. I am thankful that he keeps opening doors and fostering conversations.
Today held the opportunity to attend a workshop presented by the district. While there has been much going on in my life since the conference that I worked with this past spring, this was the first direct contact I have had with the topic of human sexuality. Stepping into this space again with the lens of the shame language that I’ve been processing since returning from Africa was like walking into a whole different world.
There is so much shame that circles whenever we talk (or don’t talk) about sex in the church. It’s an often unconsciously automatic response… and it is heartbreaking to see how we have allowed this shame to put relationships and interactions into boxes, defining them as right or wrong based on a reactive response to the culture instead of allowing the nuanced conversations that it takes to be fully alive and truly loving to our fellow humans.
I’m tired tonight. Somehow the experience today, while educational, seems to have drained my reserves of self-compassion. Between the heightened awareness of my lack of community here and the weight of the subject today, I think I just ran out. And it feels like I’m not the only one aware of it. The battle is real.
