dive.

I love the beach. I love so-very-much everything about it - the salty air, the sweltering heat, the sandy toes, the sun-kissed skin. I love watching the big ball of orange sink down over the horizon, showering the sea with it's kaleidoscope of colors. I love walking up and down the shores in search of those unique, one-of-a-kind seashells, with waves running up to my feet and falling back down into the salty abyss.

Still, as much as I love the beach - I really don't like the ocean. Or rather, I'm kind of terrified of it. It's too vast, too cold and too unknown to be enjoyable. When I think about diving into the ocean, my mind immediately dives into all the things that could go wrong - which creatures will find me, which current will carry me away, which wave will knock me down. Too many things could hurt me. For me, the ocean is a risky place.

I'm drawn to it nonetheless.

Each time I'm at the beach, the ocean almost calls me - to wade into its depths, to take the dive, to feel it's coolness on my skin. And each time, I give in. It feels I have no choice. The ocean is not safe yet I somehow always find myself there.

And you know what? As scary and unknown and terrifying as the ocean is - I think it's worth it.

This physical act of diving in - I need it as much physically as I do spiritually and emotionally. This diving into risky places - places of uncertainty or brokenness or doubt or sadness - it's always worth it. Because these are the places that make us human, that keep us alive. These are the places of truth, the places where newness and healing and wholeness are born. When I ignore these places, when I brush over them with a simple sigh or numb them with a screen in my face, I'm not really living. I'm not free. In fact, when I don't dive into pain, I become enslaved to it. Without realizing, it begins to own me and dictate my every move, every decision. The fear of feeling takes me over and paralyzes the heart and soul.

So dive, I must. To live. To feel. To be. And I'm not alone there.

It is in these spaces where Jesus becomes the most real - His presence pressing deeply into the fear, His peace washing over the heart, His healing touch mending the soul, His light breaking the walls of darkness. He meets me there each time, those eyes of Love looking into mine as He calls me His own.

This simple act of diving is becoming a life source for me...the physical dive curing my fear of the ocean, the emotional dive curing my fear of feeling, the spiritual dive curing my fear of brokenness. All the while diving deeper into this extravagant love of Jesus.

watermelon.

Life never really happens like we think it will, does it?

For instance, watermelon.

I grew up spending my summers at the beach. Pawley's Island, SC was our family's home away from home. One of our favorite things to do has always been to escape the mostly unbearable hot Columbia summers to the breezy, salty air of PI.

In essence, there were five main food groups in these almost endless summers:
1. boiled peanuts. { straight from the refrigerated section of the gas station }
2. peach fuzz. { a delicious, slushy blend of fresh peaches and ice }
3. Cheerwine. { for the love of all soft drinks, the most delicious cherry-twisted one out there }
4. popsicles. { the brightly colored kind that you had to cut the top off the plastic tube }
5. watermelon. { ripe, red and seeded with watermelon seed spitting contests on the regular }

But I never liked watermelon. Maybe it was because I was stubborn and refused to try any new foods for the majority of my life. Maybe it was because I was such a daddy's girl and well, if he didn't like watermelon then I wouldn't like it either! Maybe it was my way of trying to rebel from what seemed to be the "norm" { aka everyone else liked it so I certainly couldn't! }. Or maybe it was just a genuine distaste for this particular fruit.

For all my life I stuck my nose up at the stuff.

Then I moved to Nicaragua. And watermelon is abundant here...and cheap. For the first six months, I stuck to my guns. I refused to give in. But eventually, I began to realize: I might want to give it a shot. So I did. At first, it was simply taking watermelon whenever it was offered to me...swallowing down just one piece didn't seem so horrible. Then it came to a point that I would actually choose watermelon over other fruit - and enjoyed it!

I still remember the day I bought my very first watermelon to bring home. I didn't even have any idea how to cut it up so I had to google it. It began with smoothies - frozen strawberries and fresh watermelon. And at some point, I stopped putting it into only the blender and began eating it by the forkful - scooping a couple of pieces into a separate bowl { only to abandon that tactic all together and eat it straight from whatever Tupperware container that housed it in the fridge }. And so began my love affair with watermelon. Six months in and I haven't looked back, eating at least one watermelon a week.

Had you told me in those summers growing up that one day I would love watermelon, I would have rolled my eyes. I would have argued with you. I would have been so very sure that I would never in a million years eat watermelon.

Life, I think, happens in this same way. This slow, gradual drift from what I thought I was sure of into something terrifyingly different. Sometimes I see it coming and fight it with every inch of my being. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, surprising me with its changes. Sometimes it takes a while to get used to. Sometimes it feels as easy as slipping on my favorite pair of jeans.

But these watermelon moments, I'm discovering, are what life is all about. These uncontrollable, often unforeseen pieces that come slowly yet still shock, scare and confuse me. Because life isn't always a loud, booming, fireworks type of thing - sometimes it's a simple movement that seems quiet and ordinary - but bit by bit, it pieces itself together into something beautifully and sweetly unexpected. And through lots of surrender and lots of open-hand praying...I learn that leaning into these watermelon moments isn't quite as scary as I thought.

laundry.

This may come as a surprise but one of my favorite things about living in Nicaragua is hanging my clothes out to dry. I remember my first, real international experience in the Dominican Republic in two-thousand eleven and being drawn to the fact that everyone hung up up their laundry - dryers seemed nonexistent. And they would hang it anywhere! On the door frame, on the barb wired fence, on an old rusty line behind their house, in the trees and bushes.

I love getting to be a part of that now. It kind of makes me feel like I've made it down here, you know? When I learn exactly how to hang different types of clothes so they don't get stretched out or wrinkled lines in them - knowing which time of day is best to start laundry so that clothes will dry the fastest - seeing how the sunlight hits the line at different times in the day - finding out which clothes take the longest to dry and hanging them in the spot where they will get the most sunlight. It really is almost an art.

But do you know my favorite part about hanging laundry? It allows me to slow down. For ten to fifteen minutes, I have no choice but to forget everything else I have to do and hang my wet clothes on the line. It's almost therapeutic. It allows a space in my constantly busting at the seam schedule to think, to be silent, to listen.

I have a quote on my desk that has been one of my goals for two-thousand fifteen: "You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life." The hurried life is the life that breaks me down, that depletes my energy, that drains my soul. So in seeking to live in the grace of the unhurried life, I have come to so very much appreciate the gift that is hanging laundry.

airports.

I have a love-hate relationship with airports these days.

In general, I have always really enjoyed the airport. I don't mind long layovers, the crowds don't bother me, even delayed or canceled flights don't really phase me - it only draws out the adventure that can be traveling. I've even developed a sweet little routine for when I fly back into the States from Nicaragua.

{ in case you are interested: }
Always, always, always I do my best to fly back through Atlanta { the other two options being Houston or Miami } and make sure to have a two hour layover. Once I make it through customs { which goes pretty quick these days with their new fancy, automated check-in system }, I book it to terminal C. Why C, you ask? I'll give you three syllables: Chick-Fil-A. { the only airport of my three options to have one... } Number one combo, no pickles on wheat with a Diet Dr. Pepper? Yes please... { judge me if you dare but the living overseas Chick-Fil-A withdrawal is real } After I've fully enjoyed and devoured all the amazingness that is Chick-Fil-A, I find my gate for my next flight. On the way there, I grab some Starbucks and a Real Simple magazine, proceeding to sit at my gate for the next hour or so, sipping my { decaf, due to flight anxiety } coffee and switching back and forth between Real Simple and people watching.

People watching at the airport is truly the best. There are people around from all paths of life - old, young, city, country, international, somewhat normal, a little strange, dressed up, dressed down, big families, loners, couples. And with such a wide variety of emotions - sad, angry, frustrated, happy, tired, excited. There are bored people, late people, lost people, been-sitting-at-this-gate-for-hours people, running-to-catch-my-next-flight people. I love letting my imagination run wild and create lives for the people around me. Where did they come from? Where are they going? What's their story?

But recently, it feels more like I'm the one people are people watching. I'm the one walking through the gate with a giddy smile on my face, excited to see whoever might be there waiting to pick me up. I'm the one anxiously pacing back and forth at the gate, waiting for someone to arrive. I'm the one with tears streaming down my face as I walk through security after having to say goodbye - yet again. I experience such a wide range of emotion at the airport, it almost feels as if I have become the spectacle people come to watch { as if anyone cared that much about the brunette with too much luggage and a sloppy grin or tears in her eyes }.

So now I have this love-hate relationship with airports. I love the excitement of going on a new adventure. I hate the silent car ride home after dropping someone off. I love the sights and sounds of the hustle and bustle that surround me. I hate the empty feeling of sadness when I have to leave. I love my routine when I land in the States and I love the hot, humid air that hits your face as soon as you walk through the airport doors after landing in Managua. I hate when my throat gets caught in that final hug goodbye. I love it when the wheels of the airplane touch down in new place. I absolutely hate it when those same wheels leave the ground and are suspended in air for the next few hours.

And so goes international living, where airport runs become an integrated part of life and you proudly collect passport stamp after passport stamp. It slowly becomes the norm, this ebb and flow of emotions that encase you whenever those sliding glass doors open before you...all you can do is take a deep breath and walk through.