Things are a bit calmer these days. Busy in the day-to-day, yes. But a general sense of peace has flowed through this new season of life I recently entered. September is a very confusing month, especially in the South. The humidity is still through the roof so morning runs only work at 7am. Starbucks has released Pumpkin Spice yet it's not quite cool enough to enjoy one. Nothing is really in bloom, yet trees have not begun losing their leaves. It seems as everything is just in transition, waiting, hoping for what's to come.
I've found myself nostalgic recently. Last September I had recently moved to Knoxville, TN and was beginning a new job, learning a new place, and recently engaged. Even with all the joy and excitement that engagement brought, I still had to fight through all the questions and confusion to decide that moving to Atlanta was the best next step. Even though this would mean I would only remain in Knoxville a mere five months - which was not the original plan. In this time I was doing my best to survive cultural re-entry, start a brand-new, full-time ministry, plan a wedding, drive almost every weekend to see my better half, consistently walk into rooms full of people where I didn't know a soul and somehow try to be an actual normal, functioning human being. Cue SOS signal.
On top of all that, I also found myself under an insane amount of self-imposed guilt and shame. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was disappointing people for leaving Knoxville and a ministry that I was hired to start. I couldn't help feeling like people thought the engagement happened too fast or the wedding too soon. I couldn't stop feeling like I was constantly just trying to keep my head above water yet somehow still unable to breathe. It was a lot to handle.
And I wish I could say I handled it well. But I didn't. I was one hundred and ten percent in survival mode, just looking for comfort in whatever change or transition was in front of me next. I was so sure that if I could just arrive at that next milestone - getting engaged, deciding to leave Knoxville, actually leaving Knoxville, moving to Atlanta, starting a new job in Atlanta, moving into an apartment, getting married, moving into a new house - that everything would be better. But it didn't. I constantly found myself wondering what I was missing, why I was lacking contentment, whether I would ever feel "normal" again. All the things that used to make me...well, me, were suddenly gone because it was all I could do to simply survive.
Again, I'll say - it was A LOT to handle. My identity was not only being remolded and reshaped. It was completely torn down and stripped away, and it felt like I was left with nothing. I wasn't, of course. I knew this. But my fragile heart felt weighty and different and lost. I missed my life in Nicaragua yet felt guilty about being happy I wasn't there. Even more, I missed who I was in Nicaragua - I missed being known by people I interacted with on a daily basis, I missed having purpose in my day-to-day living, I even missed the hardships that had somehow pushed me to a deeper awareness of my truest self.
But then this year's September came. And for the first time in a long time, I could breath freely again. I had routine. I had a place. I had budding friendships. I had purpose. I had structure. I felt normal. Yes, everything around me was still different. I, in fact, was very different. I'm not the same person I used to be. And that's okay.
I talked on the phone recently to my friend Cindy, who I worked with closely in Knoxville. As she was telling me how the ministry has played out since I left, I felt such relief. As it turned out, God really only needed me in Knoxville for those five months--no more, no less. The ministry I was hired to start didn't fail because I left sooner than everyone anticipated. In fact, it has flourished into something beautiful that I could have never imagined. Maybe, just maybe, in those moments last September when I couldn't get out of bed or wondered what it was all for or felt the weight of other people's disappointment in me--God was whispering "I've got this."
Little by little, this September became a month of restoration for me. A month of laughter and joy and slowness. A month of remembrance and looking back and reminiscing. A month of rediscovering who I am and where I'm going. My life looks a lot different than it did a year ago. I look a lot different than I did a year ago. And isn't that the way it's supposed to be?
Friday, October 12, 2018
Sunday, August 19, 2018
June 27, 2018.
A year ago today, I left. Somehow I managed to pack my bags - five years worth of memories all stuffed into three suitcases. And by the grace of God, I actually got on the airplane to make the one way trek back to the States.
As I relive a memory from my last night, the pain is fresh - almost as if I am enveloped into this moment all over again. I am stuffing my computer, books and journal into my worn, leather bag. The last bag, the last of all my things to come with me, the last to-do on my moving checklist. Suddenly, the weight of it all hits me and for a second I can't breath. The tears come soon after: strong, big, heavy. I look to my co-worker turned friend turned family and through the sobs manage to put into words the aching of my heart: "I don't know how I'm going to get on the plane." I crumble into her arms, along with all my fear and sadness and uncertainty and doubt.
It's hard to put into words what it feels like to leave a place that ripped you apart and sewed you back together all at the same time. What it feels like to come back to something that is supposed to be familiar yet instead seems foreign and strange. What it feels like to know that I'll never sit in that worn, teal chair listening to the chirping birds while drinking my morning coffee. What it feels like to say goodbye to people who challenged me, laughed with me (and at me), pushed me and loved me fiercely.
That's why I haven't been writing as much, I realize. The emotions are too raw, the feelings too big to be bound by black ink on white paper. As I glance over this blog, this little space I created to give my heart room to breathe, I see so many unfinished, abandoned drafts - all hidden from the public eye. They begin with sentences and paragraphs that trail off into nothingness. As if I just suddenly couldn't finish. It was all too much - paralyzing and exhausting and scary all at the same time.
But now - a year removed from that tearful night - there is a certain lightness to my step. There is a bit of stability, a tender feeling of normalcy that is poking its head up through the chaotically beautiful mess my life has been for the past year. I feel more myself than I have in a long time. I feel steady and real and calm. No longer nomadic or running on adrenaline or undergoing significant life change. Just simple old me.
Oh Nicaragua, you will never know how my heart aches for all that I left behind.
But Jesus, You know exactly how my heart longs for all that is to come.
As I relive a memory from my last night, the pain is fresh - almost as if I am enveloped into this moment all over again. I am stuffing my computer, books and journal into my worn, leather bag. The last bag, the last of all my things to come with me, the last to-do on my moving checklist. Suddenly, the weight of it all hits me and for a second I can't breath. The tears come soon after: strong, big, heavy. I look to my co-worker turned friend turned family and through the sobs manage to put into words the aching of my heart: "I don't know how I'm going to get on the plane." I crumble into her arms, along with all my fear and sadness and uncertainty and doubt.
It's hard to put into words what it feels like to leave a place that ripped you apart and sewed you back together all at the same time. What it feels like to come back to something that is supposed to be familiar yet instead seems foreign and strange. What it feels like to know that I'll never sit in that worn, teal chair listening to the chirping birds while drinking my morning coffee. What it feels like to say goodbye to people who challenged me, laughed with me (and at me), pushed me and loved me fiercely.
That's why I haven't been writing as much, I realize. The emotions are too raw, the feelings too big to be bound by black ink on white paper. As I glance over this blog, this little space I created to give my heart room to breathe, I see so many unfinished, abandoned drafts - all hidden from the public eye. They begin with sentences and paragraphs that trail off into nothingness. As if I just suddenly couldn't finish. It was all too much - paralyzing and exhausting and scary all at the same time.
But now - a year removed from that tearful night - there is a certain lightness to my step. There is a bit of stability, a tender feeling of normalcy that is poking its head up through the chaotically beautiful mess my life has been for the past year. I feel more myself than I have in a long time. I feel steady and real and calm. No longer nomadic or running on adrenaline or undergoing significant life change. Just simple old me.
Oh Nicaragua, you will never know how my heart aches for all that I left behind.
But Jesus, You know exactly how my heart longs for all that is to come.
Friday, April 6, 2018
transition.
Upon hearing my journey of the past twelve months, people might consider me an expert in transition. Granted, I can't blame them. In the past year I decided to take a new job, fell in love with my now husband while living in two different countries, made an international move, moved to a new city (where I knew no one) and started a new job. Then I got engaged, left said new job and city for another new job and city (again, knowing no one), got married, went on a honeymoon and here I am. If that's not a whirlwind of a year, I'm not sure what is.
And now as the dust is settling from my slightly nomadic state of life for the past year, I find myself feeling a little...lost. Somewhere in the midst of transition, I've forgotten the heart of who I am and allowed myself to be defined by the "what". What am I doing? What do they think about me? What do they see in me? What is my job title? What is my pay grade? The "whats" haunt my every thought - distracting me during the day, keeping me tossing and turning at night, twisting what once was confidence and freedom into doubt and fear.
It's easy for me gloss over the magnitude of the transition my soul has experienced in the past twelve months. It's easy for me to live just barely surviving between the gap of guilt and grace. It's easy to walk the line of lists and self-inflicted pressure. It's quite easy to ignore my soul needs for the sake of attempting to simply feel better...or to feel nothing at all.
Transition of any kind - stressful, exciting, major, minor, joyful, stormy - is still transition. It still causes some type of shift in identity. And no matter the magnitude, it's still important. Taking time to reflect, remember and grieve the person I used to be, all the while rejoicing in this new person I am becoming because of transition is vital. God is still showing up, weaving in unique pieces of my story and paving a way for a different me to emerge. So instead of the "what", I'm learning to let myself be defined by the "who". Who am I? Whose am I? Who am I striving to be? Whose heart does my heart belong to? These are the most important questions we could ever ask ourselves in these moments of confusion. These are the questions that define us, define our lives, define that deepest part of ourselves that is always trying to surface.
Seasons of transition sometimes feel like they will swallow me up whole. Drowning in the newness of every single little thing, exhausted from the mental game of re-learning all I once knew, seeing a different kind of purpose and watching as a part of me I never knew existed emerges. There can be freedom in transition - freedom to let transition change me and mold me and shape me. Life is organic and I am a fool to believe that I will be the same person for my entire life. Instead of dreading the transition and change and grief, maybe I should open myself to it. Lean into it as the gift of grace it is. God is always moving, working, sculpting our lives into what He sees best fit. What if I actually learned to believe that? That in transition, He is still good? He is still holy? He is still with me?
And now as the dust is settling from my slightly nomadic state of life for the past year, I find myself feeling a little...lost. Somewhere in the midst of transition, I've forgotten the heart of who I am and allowed myself to be defined by the "what". What am I doing? What do they think about me? What do they see in me? What is my job title? What is my pay grade? The "whats" haunt my every thought - distracting me during the day, keeping me tossing and turning at night, twisting what once was confidence and freedom into doubt and fear.
It's easy for me gloss over the magnitude of the transition my soul has experienced in the past twelve months. It's easy for me to live just barely surviving between the gap of guilt and grace. It's easy to walk the line of lists and self-inflicted pressure. It's quite easy to ignore my soul needs for the sake of attempting to simply feel better...or to feel nothing at all.
Transition of any kind - stressful, exciting, major, minor, joyful, stormy - is still transition. It still causes some type of shift in identity. And no matter the magnitude, it's still important. Taking time to reflect, remember and grieve the person I used to be, all the while rejoicing in this new person I am becoming because of transition is vital. God is still showing up, weaving in unique pieces of my story and paving a way for a different me to emerge. So instead of the "what", I'm learning to let myself be defined by the "who". Who am I? Whose am I? Who am I striving to be? Whose heart does my heart belong to? These are the most important questions we could ever ask ourselves in these moments of confusion. These are the questions that define us, define our lives, define that deepest part of ourselves that is always trying to surface.
Seasons of transition sometimes feel like they will swallow me up whole. Drowning in the newness of every single little thing, exhausted from the mental game of re-learning all I once knew, seeing a different kind of purpose and watching as a part of me I never knew existed emerges. There can be freedom in transition - freedom to let transition change me and mold me and shape me. Life is organic and I am a fool to believe that I will be the same person for my entire life. Instead of dreading the transition and change and grief, maybe I should open myself to it. Lean into it as the gift of grace it is. God is always moving, working, sculpting our lives into what He sees best fit. What if I actually learned to believe that? That in transition, He is still good? He is still holy? He is still with me?
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