A Taste of Heaven

I think I got a taste of Heaven today.

It was phenomenal.  Like time stands still, never want to leave that moment phenomenal.

Beauty that cannot be captured, that cannot be described.

I went on a prayer walk with about 50 other locals through Ocean View (the township I live in).  As we walked through the streets, there was a steady melody of hymns and praises being sung gently and sensitively over the land.  Local voices calling out praises.  Interceding on behalf of their people, of their family, of their community.  Walking together.  Side by side.  Step by step. 

An army of the living God.

As we ended the prayer walk, we stopped and gathered in this small park.  The weather was surreal, the sun beating down just perfectly.  As we circled, I couldn't help but just close my eyes and listen to the voices sing.  Surrounded by the scenery of one of the worlds most beautiful creations, trying desperately to soak in the absolute beauty of the moment.  

In the circle around me stood men, women, children, grandmothers.  A people of mixed races, of all ages, of all types of backgrounds.  Standing in one place.  Singing to the glory of the throne.  

Enveloped with love.  Surrounded by grace.  Immersed in beauty.  

A small taste of Heaven.

Nothing

"...apart from me, you can do nothing."  John 15.5

Ever heard that verse before?  You know, the ever popular vine & branches analogy.  Get's you every time, right?  Yeah, me too.  

But, have you ever really considered what the word "nothing" means?

Nothing (adv): in no respect or degree; not at all.

Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Zero.  Nothing we do, apart from God, is worth it.  Nothing.

I've had to remind myself of that a lot lately.  And when I mean remind, I mean blatantly remind.  I've written it in big block letters across my journal.  I've doodled the phrase with pen a time or two on the inside of my arm.  I've highlighted and underlined the verse in every version of bible I possess.  I've all but tattooed the words across my forehead.   

Because, it's been that important.

You see, lately feel a little bit like I've been trying to do it alone.  You know, I've done this before.  I've lived among the poor.  I've hugged the necks of the needy.  I've prayed prayers of love and of freedom and of healing.  And, somewhere along the way... I let my guard down.  I thought that I had some kind of control over this crazy thing called life.  And, this past week... I all but cracked my head open on the sidewalk as I took a unexpected fall into the pit of my own inadequacy.

I can't do this alone.  No amount of money, no amount of love, no amount of wisdom I have to offer these communities will change things.  

Apart from God... I can do nothing.

In this week alone, I followed a local friend of mine into house after house, hugging the necks of women who struggle from drug addition.  Women desperately seeking to be free from the chains of bondage; women desperate to be good mothers; women desperate to simply feel alive.  This week, I stood in front of a group of 50 women, calling out the identity and beauty that exists in each and every one of them; watching, as tears fell down their cheeks and as arms embraced.  Women in desperate conditions, claiming to walk down this road together.  This week, I've seen hungry children.  I've heard the cries of poverty.  And I've certainly felt the wrath of the enemy.

And I can't do this alone.

But, if I'm honest.. I don't really want to.  Because, while apart from Him I may be nothing... with Him, nothing is impossible.  Nothing.

Guest Blogger. What, what?

Guess what?  I had my first official guest blog post.

That's right.  It's kind of like I'm an official blogger now.  What's up?!

Except, really I was just writing a blog for the ministry I am working with here in Cape Town.  But, that's neither here nor there.

All that to say, that you should go check it out.  http://looklistenlove.org

Not only should you read the blog I wrote, but you should also check out their ministry here in Ocean View.  These incredible friends of mine are dedicated to seeing the love of God absolutely explode over this area.  The way the have become a part of this community is absolutely mind blowing.  Seriously.  They might be some of the coolest people I've ever met.  

That, and my girl Sarah is way better about keeping you updated on what life and ministry looks like here on a daily basis.  Not nearly as much as a blog procrastinator as myself.

So, go.  Right now.  I mean it.  Check it out.  It's worth it, I promise.  

True Missionaries

Missionary.

I have a hard time calling myself that.  Is that weird?  I don’t know what it is exactly.  I’ve spent the last year and a half of my life traveling overseas, living in poverty stricken lands, trying desperately to be the hands and feet of God.  And, yet... when someone asks me about myself, about what I am doing with my life, about my job, I find it incredibly difficult to choke out the phrase “oh, you know... I’m a missionary!”

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not because the term holds any sort of derogatory connotation in my mind.  Maybe it’s actually that it holds so much weight.  From a young age, whenever I heard the term in church, I immediately pictured a lovely woman, with her crazy, unkept hair, wearing a long, flowing skirt, with a beautiful smile on her face; living among the poorest of poor, with 700 babies in her lap.  Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point.  To me, a missionary was someone who was willing to sacrifice everything...luxury, money, fashion, showers, and even mexican food!  And to be honest... I’m not sure I ever really wanted to do that.

Last night, as I sat in a room in Cape Town, South Africa surrounded by faces that belong to beautiful, mighty, amazing women of God... my definition of missionary changed once again.  These women have seen life at its worst.  They haven’t just seen poverty, they’ve experienced it.  They haven’t just seen devastation, they adorn scars that boldly speak of the battle.  And, they don’t just pack their bags and do this for months at a time....day after day, they pick up their swords and return to the battlefield.  

These women.  These amazing, strong, courageous township women.  They are the missionaries.  They are the ones giving everything they have to see their community survive, to see their families unite, to see that injustices are no more.  Their scars may run deep, but their love runs deeper.  

Maybe one day I’ll get there.  Maybe at some point I will feel a bit more deserving of the term “missionary”.  But for now, I relent to just being a student, to being a learner, to being a disciple.  This place is incredibly blessed with warriors, with intercessors, with life bringers, with world changers.  People who are willing to give it all, to see it through. To fight the ongoing battle of hopelessness, to never give up.  

True missionaries.

Jesus in a Tattoo Parlour

I met Jesus in a tattoo parlour.

And, no it wasn't anything like that picture.

But, seriously.

Don't worry, don't worry.  I wasn't going in for a second tattoo.  This time, I was simply accompanying a friend as moral support.  Trust me, the pain is still very real in my mind... no new needle artwork for me anytime soon.

Anyway... let me set the stage for you.  So, there's this tattoo parlour in Gainesville, Georgia.  And if you didn't know any better, you might be a little suspicious.  I mean, it is located in a building that sits behind a gas station.  But, it's legit, I promise.  And they have very nice curtains in the windows... which, sadly to say, was the basis on which I originally picked this place.  Super intelligent, I know.

So, back to the meeting Jesus thing.  As we walked in the door, we were instantly greeted by this, big, tough, burly, tatted-up biker dude.  You know, the stereotypical guy that comes to your head when you think tatto parlor.  Exact replica.  There he is, just sitting back, ever so nonchalantly scanning the room.  We gently slide into the nearby chairs, and as all good missionaries do, start up a quick conversation.   One thing led to another, and soon we were talking about the Race and all of our adventures from the past year.  All of a sudden, as if the guy's chair caught on fire, he quickly shoots up and says... "hold on, i'll be right back" and all but skips out of the room.

Awesome.  Our stories even scare off tough, biker dudes.

However, within seconds he returns holding this crumbled up piece of paper, words blotted and scattered throughout the page.  He sits back down, looks shyly at his paper and says "I wrote something down this morning and I just really want to share it with ya'll.  I knew someone would need to hear this today."

He sits up straight, clears his throat, and begins reading these beautiful, gut wrenching, lines of poetic verse.  He speaks so eloquently about the scars, the impurities, and the imperfections of our lives.  He reminds us that those things aren't reminders of disgrace or defeat.  That instead they are reminders of VICTORY.  Those wounds are our badges; they are our medals of HONOR.  Those scars tell of our experience, of our journey, of our story.  Those imperfections are a reminder that we choose to fight alongside the greatest warrior of all time.  These blemishes tell of our commitment to choose into this battle to follow Christ.  And he finishes with a line that says...

"and if you don't have any deep scars to show... then you haven't really been chasing after Jesus."

Umm.  Excuse me, who are you again?

As he finishes up, he looks up at all of us and with such great sincerity in his eyes and continues speaking.  "Yesterday was a hell of a day.  As we woke up, my wife and I, we could feel the enemy lines approaching.  We knew that they were starring us right in the face.  And at that point, early in the day, we knew we had a choice to make.  We had to decide then and there if we were going to fight or be overcome."  He pauses for a bit, as if picturing the battle scene in his own head all over again; then with a grin he says "And at the end of the day, before we went to bed, we looked back on the day; we looked back on the battle.  The one we chose to fight.  Our bodies were tired, pierced, and wounded.  There were newer and deeper scars to add.  But, we were still alive.  We were still standing.  At the end of the day, we were able to look back on the battle field and physically see the VICTORY that is promised."

See.  I told you I met Jesus in a tattoo parlour.

I don't know who this guy is.  I don't know his story.  I don't know what life looks like for him on a daily basis.  I don't know why he chose to share this absolutely beautiful nugget of wisdom with us that day.

What I do know, is that God works in unexpected ways.
What I do know, is that God lives and dwells in unexpected places.
What I do know, is that God doesn't just live in the church.
What I do know, is that He doesn't just exist in "holy" places.

This guy may not be accepted in our modern day church, but he absolutely knows his Father.  He may not hang out in the crowds of people we consider to be "christian", but neither did Jesus.  He may not look like your typical missionary, but he certainly knows what it means to stand in the middle of the battlefield.

There's a battle to be fought, and victory to be won.  And you better believe I want people just like him standing beside me on the front lines.

Part Two: Tattoo

It's official.

I got a tattoo.

WHAT?! That sweet, little Baptist girl from the bible belt of Arkansas permanently marked her body with Satan ink? Yup. well, something like that.

I've actually been thinking about this tattoo thing for a while. Well for 11ish months anyway. You see, this year has been such a pivotal year in my life and I wanted something to commemorate that. To be a reminder of the amazing truths revealed in and over my life. And, what better way than a tattoo, right?

So, I should probably go ahead and preface this story with the fact that needles quite often cause me to pass out. Awesome. Like the time that I gave blood. Or the time I had to get 473 shots to make sure I didn't contract any crazy diseases while overseas (okay, so maybe it was more like 5). Or the time when a transvestite pierced my nose, without using a piercing gun, I might add, for $1.50 in Thailand. (Just ask Stacey Hume, she will be more than happy to give you the dramatic version of that story). Long story short, I don't do well with needles. There, I said it.

So, a couple weeks back I was sitting across the table from my good friend Ashley Musick. Just chatting about life, eating a scrumptious meal after a morning at church, when I notice the tattoo on her wrist. I quickly begin to inquire about the design, where she got it done, and the ever famous question of "how bad did it hurt?" She sweetly answers all my questions and then pauses to ask... "wait, do you have a tattoo?"

Before I know it, I am sharing with her about this huge theme of my life. About my identity in Christ. About how this year has been absolutely monumental is establishing who I am as a daughter of a King. About the fact that I no longer am obligated to the things of this world, that I belong to a greater kingdom, and that I am ROYALTY.

That's it. My tattoo. ROYALTY.

That word alone reminds me so quickly of who I am. Not what I do, but who I am. Of that one thing in my life that can never be changed, never be taken. I forever am the daughter of the King of Kings, and while I am here on earth I have a responsibility to that Kingdom.

Royalty.

"That's perfect." Ashley replies. "Let's go get it."

Wait. What? Now. Oh yeah... P.S. I am probably going to pass out. Maybe throw up. And you will have to hold my hand. Still wanna go?

We called a couple of friends and then quickly searched the internet for local tattoo shops, scribbled down a few addresses, and jumped in the car. All to soon be reminded that it is Sunday. No tattooing on Sunday. Bummer. Apparently making sure you can't buy alcohol or get tattoos on Sundays makes you holier. Hmmmm....

To shake off the "no tattoo" blues, I settled for a very large cone of Bruster's Ice Cream, most which most ended up on either the ground or my dress (yes, I still have a couple of 5 year old tendencies). However, still very determined to be brave and go through with this.

Finally the day arrives. Tattoo Tuesday. My friend Ashley and I march back down to the tattoo place, brave pants pulled up high. I walk in, expecting to have at least a short wait, and quickly find myself sitting on a vinyl covered, black stool with my left arm extended in front of me, the layout of the word ROYALTY starring back. In front of me sits a very burly man, tattoos up and down his arm, ink gun in his hand. Yup. We're at the right place.

I am determined that I will not pass out. Determined, mind you. I quickly look over at Ashley and say "Just don't let him stop at ROY. Whatever happens, he must finish." She gives a quick giggle and before I know it the buzzing of the gun begins. I turn back to Ashley "Quick, tell me a story. Anything." Bless her heart, she does her very best to keep me distracted... but soon enough I find my eyes getting a little blurry. And then there's that blasted ringing sound. Sweat droplets start to form on my forehead. I've only made it two letters in and I am not fairing well. This can't be good.

The lady behind the front counters steps in to check on me, and quickly sees that I am not doing so hot. Before I know it, she has a jar full of sugary snacks in front of me, asking which one I want. "Do you want cherry, or strawberry? or Watermelon or grape?" Really, lady. I don't care. I just want it to be in my mouth. Now.

Left arm still on the table. Right hand holding Ashley's. Sucker stick hanging out the side of my mouth... I finish my tattoo like a champ. Even found the courage to watch as he finished off the second half. Brave pants still on. Tattoo adventure. Success.

Will I still love my tattoo 40 years from now? Who knows? But, even 40 years from now it will still speak boldly of who I am. Even now, multiple times a day my tattoo will catch my eye. And each time it's a quick reminder of this year of my life. It's a quick reminder of my purpose. Of my identity. Of my responsibility to the Kingdom. Of life abundantly greater than I can ever imagine.

I am ROYALTY. And so are you.

Part One: Identity Crisis

just a couple of days ago i officially started packing up the room i grew up in.  i removed all the plaques from the walls, and then stared down into boxes full of trophies, awards, pictures, and other mementoes of my childhood.  don’t worry, even at 25 my parents aren’t kicking me out just yet.  instead, i am packing up and repainting this room so that when the time officially comes, my new haitian sister will have a room to call her own (which is a whole other blog in itself).

piece by piece, i was vividly reminded of who i am.  maybe more so of who i was.  you see, i’ve always been the kind of person who got something in my head, went after it, succeeded, and then had the paperwork to show it.  a box full of academic awards; scholarship achievements, 4.0 plaques, the most outstanding graduate award from my college, and the dried up flowers from my homecoming court debut.  a box of church related awards; scripture memory achievements, religious debate awards, service project acknowledgements.  a box full of leadership achievements and fancy invitations to special events and conferences.  and finally, a box filled with athletic achievements; player of the game awards, all conference team acknowledgements, along with trophies and medals from multiple summer league championships.

and while all those shiny awards and achievements once claimed the walls and shelves of my room, it felt fitting to finally pack them into boxes.  that’s not to say that any of those achievements were wrong or unwarranted.  the issue lies within the fact that competition, success, and perfection were the driving forces of my life.  they defined who i was, they defined my expectations, they defined my identity.  without them, i would have fallen short.  i would have failed.  and failure was never an option.

yet throughout this past year, God has slowly (and quite painfully) begun to strip me of what i once thought was my identity.  what i once thought i had to live up to.  of the perfection i thought was necessary in my life, especially in my walk with Him.  instead of perfection, i experienced failure.  instead of always being able to succeed, i found myself in situations that i could not change, circumstances i could not overcome.  over and over, i fell on my face.   over and over, i sat in brokenness.  over and over, i was reminded that falling short is what warrants my desperate need for my Papa. 

each time i fell, my Papa picked me up and spoke graciously into my identity.  into who i really was.  those things, all the expectations i had once lived up to, they aren’t who i am.  they are temporary, all set by my own expectations.  instead, this year i have been reminded that who i am is a child of God.  who i am is a daughter of a king.  i am ROYALTY.  i did nothing to deserve that status.  nor can i do anything to take it away.  it's who i am, it's ingrained deep into my being.  nothing about that is temporary.  that’s who i am, that’s who i’ve always been.  nothing, not even life can take that away.

no amount of awards or successes can increase his love for me.  no amount of memory verses will change the way he sees me.  i already belong to him, i belong to his kingdom, i have been adopted into the royal family, and i have an inheritance to claim.  my identity lies in Him and Him alone.  i am called to step into that royalty, to acknowledge my responsibility to the kingdom, and walk alongside the king of kings.  the one who created all claims ME as his own... that’s all He expects of me, to simply be His.