Roots.

A wandering traveler who seeks solace and rest in the adventures she has. An itinerant citizen who stays long enough for the baby roots to spread, but soon uproots before the taproot takes hold. The radicle begins nestling itself into the fertile soil, but soon the plant is transferred to a new location, learning to live in a new environment once again. Away from family and friends, adapting to the different nutrients. And the process soon starts all over again.

Who knows the potential of this particular plant, for it’s never given the chance to grow and flourish. Is it due to her discontent that she so often feels the slight taste of dissent? Is it her fear of realizing a reality of stunted growth as her utmost? Is it simply the longing in her spirit to find a home that she has not yet discovered? Will her taproot ever grow thick enough, her root system ever grow deep enough, that being transplanted becomes no easy task?

She lives in a position of transition. A lifestyle of a nomad. The saplings she grew up with have all seemed to put down roots and put them down strong, with a husband, wife, child, or house to go along with their settling. Yet she wanders.

Is this an aimless wandering, or is she following the whispering of one greater. One thing’s for sure: the desire to wander has dwindled and the openness to finding a home has taken over.

 I want to be like a tree planted by the water, trusting in the Father to help me grow. 

The end of silence?

Six months of silence. Six months of only scattered showers of self-expression, which was then kept just between myself and my dying Mac.  Six months of running too fast for my thoughts to catch up, believing I have nothing worthwhile to say. Pushing away the sparks of ideas that quickly pass through my consciousness, just asking to be elaborated on.  Six months of trying to make things happen, rushing to and fro, fretting about how slow or nonexistent my income is. Half a year. It doesn’t seem possible, but it is. And now that my fingers are gracing the keys once again, my heart realizes what I’ve been missing out on. The things that have been swimming around are becoming clearer, the definition sharper, the threat smaller. So here we go again. Yet another cycle of silence has hopefully come to an end.

False dichotomy

I admit it. And if you know me you probably already know it. I used to idolize the “spiritual,” disregarding everything that is “natural.” In my mind there was a false dichotomy that controlled my priorities and caused me to feel guilty for doing something that gave simple joy to me. I used to think the only way to truly serve God was in another country, in a place where you’re uncomfortable and must trust him to see. You must give up all and move across the sea. But as I’ve grown, as I’ve taken part in the distant unknown, my eyes are being opened to the fact that it’s not about how far you go, not even how uncomfortable you are. For the Lord uses our gifts and passions to bring us near to those who otherwise wouldn’t know what a Christian is. As we delight in him, he gives us the desires of our heart, not because he’s a celestial vending machine, but because delight in him means dependence, and dependence means growing a heart similar to that of Christ. Our desires become his and we begin to see with his eyes those who I’d otherwise overlook due to my dichotomic pride.

As I’ve lived abroad for some time in order to love, serve, and grow, I’ve gained great respect for those who stay at home, for those who work in a company or in an office answering phones. Those people have great courage, the Christians that are there, for they have an opportunity I would never have to get to know their co-workers and bond on a level I couldn’t dare to imagine.

I used to think because I liked making music but followed Christ, I would have to give it up and focus on the “important things” and pay the price. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Musicians have a sphere of influence with other musicians. Dancers, even break dancers, with other dancers, accountants with the office, mothers with their children and other mothers around. Students with their classmates and teachers, restaurant workers with their guests.

Who am I to say that one profession is more spiritual, “better” than the rest? No, instead I’m beginning to see the beauty in living fully were you are. Could God call any one of us to give up all and follow him somewhere unknown? Yes. Does he use those who have gone across the sea? Yes. But does that mean that they are more “holy,” more “spiritual” than the rest? No. For it’s not a test.

There is no dichotomy. Instead we are made one. Heaven and Earth united through a small child. And now we can fully be ourselves in Him. Whether it be a missionary or one who checks people out at the local store, we serve the same God. And that God isn’t limited to what our minds conceive.

He’s given us passions. He’s given us talents. He’s given us dreams and desires. And he uses those things to love his people and change the world.

Jesus was a refugee

A place of refuge for the pilgrim. A place of safety and acceptance to the refugee. A place that welcomes all and seeks understanding, surpassing the standard society sets for civility and showering all with grace and love. Ushering in a kingdom of Peace that does not write anyone off because of their background. That does not demand an answer to every question and require conformity to a societal norm. A place where effort is made to learn their language. Where time is spent helping with the littlest of things. A place where a new face is immediately invited to lunch, while not neglecting the familiar faces as not in need of our love.

Jesus was a refugee. His family sought asylum for his sake. They depended on the kindness of a country and culture different from their own. Jesus’s life was saved because of the acceptance his family found in this new land.

May we live that out in our world today.