Thoughts on Sandy

Eleven years ago, I sat on a bed with my mom and little siblings, staring at a TV screen replaying the images of falling towers again and again and again. With my middle- school comprehension of the world, I was a total spectator: interested, but unaffected. Concerned, but in no way burdened.

Flash forward nine years. I was walking across a college campus on a beautifully clear Michigan morning, scrolling twitter feeds with updates about the earthquake in Haiti. This time I was interested and affected, frustrated with the girls around me who were more concerned with their outfits than their suffering counterparts in the Caribbean, and my heart bled all over the sidewalk as I figured out ways to break the news to my parents that I was going to get on a plane and fly down to the little island.

"Wait," a good friend wisely counseled, "what would you do when you got there? You have no skills or services to offer any of them- you'd just be one more mouth to feed."

Furious, I ignored her for the rest of the day, but couldn't get her warning out of my mind.

What would I do?
How could I help?

Because holding babies is nice... but not when they'd rather some food and a warm bed.

Those questions eventually pulled me out of college and into the world, and now I find myself studying nursing so that I do have skills to offer to the broken and hurting.

Now here I am this morning, burdened and frustrated, once again sitting on a warm couch in a home blessed to have been bypassed by Sandy, surrounded by closed roads and fallen trees, watching the news unfold with drama as the earth once again circles the sun. I can't volunteer because I haven't been train in disaster relief (and, post marathon, I'm still walking like a duck). I can't donate blood because I was in malarial countries within the last year. I can't even give money because my tuition is overdue.

What good am I?

All I can do is study for my upcoming exams, trusting that the Lord has a plan in mind and praying for all of those who have been severely affected by this storm.
One day, I hope to be on the front lines, but for this day, I have to be patient and faithful to the responsibilities here.

My dad likes to say that everyone wants to be successful but not everyone is willing to prepare for success. I've had years of gallivanting off wherever my bleeding heart led me; now it's time to do the hard work of patiently preparing for the serious stuff.

Because the world is waiting.

Ending the Starvation

The room where I sleep at my Grandma’s house has a huge bed in the center of it, perfect for sprawling out. It can hold several girls up late giggling or mountains of pillows to squeeze while you cry. It supports you when you’re too tired to think and rebounds back when in your joy you can barely lie still.

The last week has seen most of these emotions.

On Wednesday, I collapsed after the longest and most draining day of my life (not really, but at the moment that’s how I felt), too tired to even brush my teeth or turn off the light. I was convinced the whole semester was going to feel like that: emotionally exhausting, mentally impossible, physically unengaging and spiritually dry. Overwhelmed with frustration and buzzed with caffeine, I desperately tried to fall asleep as an escape from the weight of it all.

But tonight is different.

My day was just as long and started just as early (and will someone please tell me who invented 7:30am classes?). There was an administrative mishap that sent me straight to the kitchen to emotionally eat (I can’t fairly call it binging because there wasn’t enough time to do any real damage, but it is something that surprised me that I’m going to be mindful of), a mixed up assignment and a class full of (for lack of a better term) morons.

By nightfall, I was spent… and still expected at Bible study.

While in my 9 hours of class, I spent most of my time with a grumbling stomach because I didn’t have time to eat. I had completely forgotten that I was also emotionally starved, as well, and needed to sit in a circle with other women who loved the Lord and be refreshed and reminded of why I’m here and what I’m doing.

But Jesus knew, and He drew me back tonight with the love and the assurance that I had lost this week, with all of the quizzes and papers and early mornings and missed meetings.

As I had once again tried to become Martha, He reminded me that only one thing was necessary, and I did not have to have it taken from me.

I still have to study and time management will still be a struggle, but tonight I’ve been reminded that I am a daughter of the living God- adopted into the priesthood of the saints and surrounded by the most incredible women who are fighting for the same things as me. Together, we’re going to fight the fight, finish the race and keep the faith, so that at the end of  all days we can stand hand in hand and hear, “Well done, good and faithful servants.”

I'm sprawled on this wonderful bed, sitting in silence without a million worries racing through my mind.

God is so good.

What wondrous love is this, o my soul? That He would love me enough to wait for me to remember that it is not the programs that delight, but the people. That I can do nothing apart from Him, but with Him, I can do all things. That He loved me not because of what I've done, but because He is love.

Praise the Lord, o my soul.

I am Mrs Nesbitt

There’s a great scene in the movie Toy Story: Buzz Lightyear, space ranger extraordinaire, has been captured and forced to face the reality that he is nothing but a toy: a child’s play thing. Upon this realization, he loses all hope, and doesn’t even fight a little girl forcing him into a pink apron and frilly hat for the upcoming tea party. When Woody, his friend the second rate cowboy, comes to rescue him, Buzz looks up at him in total despair and yells,

“Don’t you get it?? I AM MRS NESBITT.”

The space ranger who had formerly been preoccupied to the core with defeating Zurg and protecting the galaxy, who wasn’t afraid to fly and even less afraid to prove himself, this is the toy sitting at a tea party with a pair of headless dolls.

“One minute you’re defending the whole galaxy, and suddenly you find yourself sucking down Darjeeling with Marie Antoinette and her little sister.”

I think I identify with Buzz on most days… or, perhaps more accurately, Mrs Nesbitt. Sometimes, I am too content to sit at a tea party, asking if my hat looks good, knowing the whole time that something has gone horribly wrong.

Buzz was created to fight Zurg.

I was destined to fight Satan.

Buzz was faced with the reality that he was a toy.

I am daily confronted with my sinful flesh.

Buzz was kidnapped and dressed in pink.

I willingly turn to idolatry over my living Savior.

Buzz sat sipping tea while all of the toys that were counting on him were left defenseless.

How long have I been enjoying the American luxuries while the children I’ve been sent to rescue sit around with no one?

Luckily for Buzz, Woody came into the messy tea party, (literally) slapped Buzz in the face and reminded the space ranger who he was.

Who am I? Am I a space ranger, trained by years at an academy to fight Zurg? No. But neither am I reduced to sucking down Darjeeling with a pair of headless dolls.

Who is my Woody? Who is willing to step into the complete and utter mess that I feel my life has become most days, telling me to snap out of it and not letting me wander off in despair after the confrontation?

“I’m sorry. You’re right- I’m just a little depressed that’s all. I can get through this. I’m a sham. Look at me I can’t even fly out of the window. The hat looked good? Tell me the hat looked good. The apron was a little bit much…”

It’s not about the hat, Buzz.

It’s not about the location, Natalie.

It’s time to saddle up. Woody is waiting for Buzz, and my African babies are waiting for me.

No more wasting years of academy training for us.

The So Called Little Men

Recently, I was challenged to prayer walk my neighborhood.

It was almost surreal, as the last few times I had prayer walked were in Asia, around the bar districts where girls were forced into prostitution, up and down mountains where massive stone idols were set up for people to worship, even around a city in a closed, Muslim country, where you could literally feel the demonic oppression as you walked through the masses of people eager to find relief for their souls.

But prayer walk Northern Virginia?

True to form, I continue to be reminded that the God of the mission field is the same God who reigns back home, and the things I did on the Race are just as important to do back here.

So a- prayer- walking I went.

I meandered to the shopping center across the street, and stood looking at all the businesses there: restaurants, a carpet store, a vet, even (my favorite) a Starbucks.

"Jesus," I prayed, "please bring men and women into each of those businesses who love you and will use their job as a mission field- literally turn this shopping center over to Your glory."

Amen and done, right?

Later that night, my Dad and I went to go meet a man who was helping us sell my grandmother's house. You want to talk about emotional instability, well here it was. This was the house I was raised in, where I moved back later and learned what love really is- deep and unconditional and a little bit kooky. This was the woman who never let me out of her sight without reminding me to pray and trust Jesus, because He has everything under control.

As we sat with this man, my heart was hurting. Some new young family was probably going to move in to this house of spiritual warfare, this home that had seen knees on it from my grandmother and my mother, day after day, year after year.

As we left, we prayed for the people buying the house, then the real estate agent told us that he sold more houses on his knees than on his feet, as he shared a story of how he prayed every night with his daughter and gave us a glimpse into some of those answered prayers.

I realized in that moment that this is what the Christian life is: it's men and women who are radical. Not that they all have to abandon everything to go into the bush of Africa, never to be seen again- rather, they live their lives with quiet strength, interacting with the fallen world in a way that quietly screams there's a God in heaven and He loved us enough to die for us.

This man may never hold a distraught orphan or comfort a widow burying her child, but he is a warrior of the faith and is doing great things in the background. The church may not recognize him as a giant, but last night, I did, and was reminded that it's not about fame or fortune or even Africa, it's about being faithful to the Lord and bringing Him glory wherever you go: Africa or NOVA or real estate.


We're the body of Christ, and this is our mission: to heal the sick, to raise the dead, to cast out demons.
Let's go. :)

Interrupted

I was interrupted today.

It’s been a grueling two weeks, in the office long hours, typically with more laptop work when I get back to the hotel. Last night around midnight I gave up on a particularly gnarly assignment to go pack in anticipation of a 4am wakeup call before flying out. But when we got to the airport, a minor glitch turned into high drama, and a few hundred people missed flights. Now our 5:30am arrival time was a little unnecessary… for a 5:30pm flight.

Talk about an interruption.

True to form, Dad whipped out his laptop and encouraged me to do the same, so I set up shop in the perfect area for people watching, overlooking a hallway connecting half of the terminal. I think it’s a sign that office life isn’t for me, though, because it’s been hard for me to concentrate with all these people walking by.

One mom was trying to get her toddler to watch a mini DVD- complete with the headphones. He wasn’t interested, too curious about what flavor headphone she had selected for his chewing pleasure.

One older couple was wheeled off the plane by a tiny, white haired man who had been running around the airport all morning.

A dad sat down, surrounded by four precious toddlers in matching sparkly red shirts. When Mom showed up, the littlest lifted her chubby face and asked to go to the bathroom, Frustrated, the mom dragged her off, only to return her to Dad and storm off again. She got back just in time to board and wouldn’t hold any of the nervous, clutching fingers.

One dad walked hand in hand with his little girl, and when the carpet ended and the striped tiling began, they stopped, and she declared, “Light green!” So they very carefully stepped on the dark green stripes and avoided the light green ones…. the whole way down.

A group of nervous tweens all dressed alike returned from the News Exchange with a bag of contraband: bags of candies. Sneaky and giggly, the inhaled the whole lot, then skipped back off to their terminal, prepared to annoy the entire cabin but visibly having the time of their lives.

A tiny old lady, a little Abuelita, slowly walked down the hallway with a little bag that was clearly all she could manage. She paused for a moment and half of the crowd swerved around her, too busy to see the body of this auntie wasn’t able to keep up with the flow of traffic, as hard as she tried to push it. Regaining her strength, she continued on, struggling down the hallway as bravely as she could, little and alone. I watched her walk until I lost sight of her in the frenzied, rushing crowd.

A young man in army fatigues sat down in one of the waiting areas, holding his bag, absorbed in his thoughts. Two flight attendants were walking by, and one stopped, turned back to this soldier, leaned down and said something. He nodded once, and the two women continued on their way.

I couldn’t help but wonder, is her son overseas? Was she thanking him for his service, knowing that service by definition tends to be a thankless task, filled with complaints but rarely with gratitude? Was she wishing him well, knowing he may be sent off to war, that he may never return to this place, may never return home?

This hallway is filled with life. Babies and teenagers are learning to make their way, and the elderly are trying to keep a pace they once pioneered. Families are growing closer together, making memories and sharing stories, or they are being torn apart by frustration and selfishness. People are eating and walking and working and shopping.

No one noticed the girl on her laptop, watching them all, silently praying the little boy eating the headphones would crave the Bread of Life, that the frustrated mom would love her little girls the way Christ loved the church, that the sweet old lady would have sweet grandchildren to teach to pray, that the men going off to war put on the full armor of God, and that more than any political battle, that they fight the good fight of faith.

That’s my prayer on this interrupted day, as I wait to take my own journey, in between document reviews and flight status checks. Jesus came that all men would be saved, so as I sit here, interrupted on my way to the beach, I’m praying for the men and women in my path.