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.

Life on the Road

You would think the World Race would have taught me a thing or two about life on the road.

To some extent, it did. I can pack for four weeks straight and all manner of activity (beach, friends, office, family) in about 45 minutes flat. I'm not overly stressed when I realize I forgot toothpaste, knowing that pretty much anywhere in the world you can pick up that minty stuff. I've even, to some extent, started nesting- this, the third (or fifth, depending how you look at it) of the "homes" I've had over the last few weeks looks decidedly lived in. Not messy, but unpacked.

See? Miracles really do happen, Mom.

But here's something that I thought I'd learned that apparently I need to relearn: Community is a big freaking deal.

It's the hardest thing on the planet, and the most important thing, too.

This week I have the joy and privilege of working with some people who, for lack of a better term, aren't exactly my first choice of travel companions. So of course this girl who survived India and made it to Moldova loved everyone around her, the way Christ loved the church...

Yeah right.

I've been mean and snotty and downright rude.

And then, in my holier than thou way, I was reading my Bible like any good church girl, and the Holy Spirit literally took a fist to my face and threw me flat on the floor.

Ok, not literally, but kind of literally.

Those who consider themselves religious (uhhh, me) and yet do not keep a tight reign on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after widows and orphans in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

Awesome. So little miss religious over here, the one who loves to hold orphans and hug widows, the one who knows the Gospel backwards and forwards and gets excited about sharing it... her faith is worthless if she can't reign in her tongue??


All of a sudden, it all hit me: every mean side comment I'd made, every snotty attitude, every rude action. Religion that God our Father accepts makes no division between cool and uncool, worthy and unworthy. We are all sinners (of whom, to quote Paul, I am the worst), saved by an infinite grace from the most severe of punishments for the sin of setting ourselves up as God.

Because when I judge people, I'm telling God, "Hey listen- great job and all with the whole creation thing, but you messed up this one person, but don't worry, I'll take care of the shunning for you."

It's more like, "Hey Natalie, this is Jesus. Do you realize that you're the biggest hot mess I've ever seen? And yet, even despite your selfishly prideful ways, I love you enough to give up everything for you, to bear the full weight of your condemnation and in doing do, I paid the price for you. You think this guy is a piece of work? Take a look in the mirror, My sweet but silly girl. I didn't save you so you could condemn others; I saved you so you would be My aroma to this hurting, broken world. Your mission is not to tell Me how dorky those around you are, it's to love them in spite of their harmless socially awkward ways, the same way I love you in spite of your sinful self obsession."

Jesus said it, now I get to live it, to be a part of the joyous kingdom that is revealed when I love my next door neighbor as myself.

Unleashing My Inner Shauna

I have a confession: I’m obsessed with Shauna Niequist. The woman is incredible: She loves Jesus; she loves her family; she’s a chronic overcommitter (which means I totally relate to her); she writes about food every chance she gets.

I’m not saying she calls up her girlfriends and rehashes every calorie she consumed each day. I mean she has a dinner party and she describes the food in detail; she has a simple lunch and makes the sharp cheddar and grainy bread an adventure to live, not just another box to check.

Shauna has struggled with food the way most of us (certainly I) have, and she’s lived to tell the tale in an epic and delicious way: with garlicky tandems and spicy side notes.

The other night, I had a group of friends over to celebrate a last night in town before one of them was deployed to the Middle East. They walked into the house where I was already cooking (reading between the lines, that means my hair was in a messy top bun and all the makeup had been steamed off my face) and I put them to work, slicing cheese, setting the table, arranging the salad and getting out drinks.

As the dinner was set and we all sat down to eat this final meal together, with old friends reconnecting for the first (and last) time in a long time, no one really paid much attention to the little shrimp swimming in couscous and pine nuts or the way the creamy avocados perfectly coated the spinach salad. They made a polite remark or two and, of course, had seconds, but the main point of the evening wasn’t about the food.

And yet, as I sent them off to the backyard for some male bonding (did I mention it was all guys because all of the girls bailed out last minute?) while I did the dishes, I realized something important:

This same group of guys can (and does) meet in other circumstances, but there’s something missing. When they’re all sitting around a table with candles and sparkling glasses of red wine, something magical happens and there’s more to the story than may at first meet the eye.

They walked back inside as I pulled chocolate chocolate-chip cookies from the evening, the smell filling the house.

It’s in these moments, as my parents came to hang out with us and the clock ticked later and later, as nothing serious was said except goodbye as we all prepared to go back to our “normal” lives: one to school, one to an accounting firm, one to write a book and one to the Middle East, it’s here in the mundane that we get to cross paths, where lives intersect and stories unfold.

Shauna taught me that all of life is beautiful and mysterious, and that it’s the little, seemingly insignificant moments where all the weight of the world rests. Those moments tend to be over a meal- a good, healthy, filling meal. Not just food filling the stomach, but a meal filling the soul.

That night I unleashed my inner Shauna to the room full of wandering boys.

Tomorrow, who knows? I may unleash her on the world.

Cops and Christians

What do cops and Christians have in common?

For those of you outside the DC metro area, I would like to offer up a warning before you drive here: be careful. There are cops everywhere (and I do mean everywhere). I can’t remember the last time I got on the road and didn’t see at least one (usually more than three) out and about.

I take it back: they’re usually not “out and about.” Typically, the cops I see are sneaky. They hide behind trees, hills and houses; they wait for their moment to bust you. That’s right: speed traps. These clever little cop cars have hideouts the whole way from my parent’s house (where I work) to my grandma’s house (where I sleep), and they prowl the area like fruit flies on a rotten banana.

Tonight, as I was driving home, I saw the other kind of cop, the one I sometimes forget exists as I make absolute certain not to exceed 25: the kind of cop that speeds off down the highway, doing at least 20 over and clearly annoyed when you’re driving so slowly (chill out, I was in the right-hand lane!).

This brings me back to my original question: what do cops and Christians have in common?

They’re both perceived as self-righteous hypocrites.

These Fairfax County cops have this glaring double standard. They’re allowed to zoom past those white rectangular boxes, ignoring the little black numbers as they zip along home. But woe to anyone else who dares inch a few miles per hour past the limit: whammo- ticket time.

And I’m talking to the tune of $200.

Meanwhile, Christians are seen much the same. They go to church only to come home, fight with their families, gossip with their friends and get their weekend party on, only to clean up nicely for church again the following week so they can sit in the service and judge all those sinners who aren’t present, who are so lazy as to sleep in on a Sunday after the undoubtedly wild and crazy night they had had the previous evening.

Confession: I’m no fan of the cops around here. But I’ve acted worse than cops when I’ve hoity toited my butt to church, only to use it as a bargaining chip to boost my ego and blast anyone who didn’t live up to my standards of perfection.

And they called Jesus the friend of sinners.

He loves people, not because they clean up nicely on Sunday mornings, but because He created them and endured hell on their behalf.

That’s like saying the cop who never speeds sat through traffic court for my (totally deserved) speeding ticket and then paid the whole thing off when the judge (in justice) condemned me “guilty as charged.”

My ticket meant an eternity separated from God- that’s a little bit pricier than a mere $200.

With a love like that, I don’t want people to see me as self-righteous. I never want to be compared to a cop. When people look at me, I want them to see Jesus.

Because He loves them, and because He deserves them- for He endured hell for them.

For us.

Doesn’t Jesus deserve those for whom He suffered?