tale of the tattoos---part one

The beginning of December marked two years since coming back from Rwanda. Some friends said, "Two years since you came back home! Yay!" Other friends said, "That was a good enough amount of time, glad you came back home!" And there were more of what people consider other joyful reasons to have come back to the US. I was and still am far from joyful reasons. My heart hates December 5th. My heart aches December 5th. My heart breaks December 5th. And it aches and breaks every day in between. That "good enough amount of time" I spent there was minuscule compared to what I had dreamed and envisioned. It was tiny compared to the fire that I had. It was nothing close to what I thought God had planned. 

It was just long enough to taste my dream, but then immediately be yanked away from it. Just long enough to be shown wonders, but then wasn't allowed to be a part of it. Just long enough to see everything fall apart and feel like the past four years had been a waste. Just as I had thought, "wow, God, You're making this happen, just like You said You would and could," is when it was taken away and it was as if God had said: "oh, nevermind." A holy dream and desire was held out before me, but then I was told, "you can't have it." "Here is everything you've ever wanted, you're close, so close, but just kidding, you won't be doing any of that."

It was bad enough to be wrecked by a shattered dream and left wondering why before a God whom I thought was allowing me to be a part of building His kingdom and allowing me to enter what I thought would be a deeper intimacy with Him. Left wondering if God is who He says He is. Left wondering why He would hurt me so. That was bad enough. 

Throw in important relationships in my life disintegrating. People that I trusted. People that I loved. People that changed my life. People that God used to help heal broken parts of me. Gone. A confusing sort of gone. A wondering-if-they-cared-to-begin-with sort of gone. An absolute heartbreaking sort of gone. They're gone in a way that it's like they're dead, but they're still alive. And I was left wondering, once again, why. Why would such people suddenly be against me? What happened that made them believe false things? Why would they be adversaries when all I did was obey and listen to God? How could other Christians not believe me when I said God was leading me in a certain direction? How could other Christians call me a quitter? How could other Christians tell me I don't have what it takes to be a missionary? 

So much emotional chaos and confusion. I knew God wanted me to go back home, but I fought with every ounce of my being to stay and finish what I started and finish what my supporters expected me to finish. However, my heart grew heavier and heavier and I knew that I had finished what God had wanted me to finish in the short time I was in Rwanda. So I went home, but it was definitely God dragging me home. 

And then I crashed and crashed hard. I crashed in my walk with the Lord in ways I never could have imagined. I began struggling with things that I thought could only happen in bad dreams. A new medical diagnosis added fuel to the fire and will for the rest of my life. Guilt and shame plagued my life, but I knew that God still remained unmoved. I knew He hadn't left, but I kept forgetting His infinite grace held me next to Him. So, my first tattoo came along:

"It is finished."

John 19:30. Jesus' last moments and last words. Words that will forever give hope to those trapped in darkness and those in a season of darkness. This was the moment where everything that condemned us all to everlasting torture was consumed by the hands and feet and soul of Jesus. Every sin and ounce of darkness was forgiven and paid for. Every sin past, present, and future. Every shortcoming that we ever committed or don't even know we will commit is washed away. And what's even more amazing? Jesus tells us that it is finished even though before we were even alive He knew how badly we would sin against God, and yet still chose to die or us anyway. He finished what we never could. 

This tattoo is on the inside of my bicep, easily seen every day. And I have needed to see it every day. No matter how I may have struggled the past couple years, no matter the level of darkness, I'm reminded it's already forgiven and forgotten. It's a reminder of the endless grace that I really shouldn't be given. It's a reminder and hope for that next day that God hasn't left and He never will.

Truth is is that I started this post this past December, however, I now see it rather fitting that I finished this post at Easter time.

the difference between tattooed people and non tattooed people

The next couple posts are going to be about the stories behind my two tattoos. They have a part in my story post-Rwanda. Before I post those, I would like to politely post a couple rants.

Tattoos tell stories. They could be stories about how the tattoo was intentional or not intentional. They could be stories about the most important things in a person's life or could be a mere description of something that a person really likes. They could be stories of scars, battles, heartbreak, or loss. They could be stories of celebration or promises. They could be stories of those gone or those born. They could be stories of beliefs that a person bases their life on. Stories, stories, stories. They're almost like a look into the soul.

Tattoos are also prone to judgmental questions and statements. Things like, "Did you think about what it will look like when you're old?" "It wont mean anything to you later." Yes, I thought about what it will look like when I'm old. Sure, wrinkles might effect mine, but, to be blunt, I'm going to look like one bad ass grandma. And, yes, they will mean something to me even in 50 years. My motto with getting tattoos is no ink without meaning. I chose my tattoos because they are things that will never grow old.

So, next time you see someone with tattoos, consider asking them about their stories rather than mumble under your breath how classless they look and how trashy that person must be.

"The difference between tattooed people and non tattooed people is that tattooed people don't care that non tattooed people aren't tattooed."

one year later---grace among ashes

***Forewarning---you're not about to read a lighthearted what-have-I-learned-in-the-past-year post. The following is raw and real and is only the tip of the iceburg.

It's been one year since I came back from across the world. About five months before that I had arrived there anticipating that those five months would be something other than what they had actually turned out to be. I had embarked on this one-year adventure lit up with vision, with great expectancy, and with my life jammed into four suitcases. I anticipated fulfillment of dream and of calling. I yearned to see fruit of obedience and God's mighty and faithful hand at work in the lives and hearts of 150 boys who go barefoot on dusty streets in the middle of Africa. I had this same anticipation, this same yearning, this same expectancy, this same vision for four years when my heart was given a passion that no one can give themselves. I had watched God do amazing things to get me there, such as providing $21,000 in a mere 6-8 weeks, so I had anticipated miraculous things were about to occur. So I boarded a plane, said yes to His go, and flew across the world to this teeny Maryland-sized country in the middle of Africa to go build a kingdom. I was alive.

Little did I know that after a mere two weeks of being on the ground I would be blindsided. I would have the rug pulled out from underneath me. The slander would begin. The betrayal would begin. It was as if my offensive line had not only let the defensive line through, but they had also turned and were trying to take me to the ground as well. I would start to question everything I had pursued and trusted for four years. I was wrecked so badly that I am questioning these same exact things to this very day. Relationships disappeared and shattered before my eyes. The way things had been presented to me turned out to not be the case and I was left to make things happen and do my mission almost without any sense of direction. I had to figure out the culture, the language, and how to go about day-to-day routines mostly on my own.

Next thing I know, after praying, seeking counsel, and many tears, God was leading me to go home after only five months. So as He had told me to go, I went home.

I was met at home by another wave of trials---I lost more relationships and a good chunk of my support system, more slander, and more accusations. Then came a devastating diagnosis. Everything changed and nothing else has been the same and I haven't been the same.

So I'll be honest---I've been wrecked. Wrecked by a diagnosis and the struggle that comes with it. Wrecked by hurt from unexpected places. Wrecked by shattered dreams. Wrecked by what seems like unnecessary pain and struggling. Wrecked by lack of faith, by doubt, by fear, and by stubbornness. Wrecked by past ghosts and current demons. Wrecked because of the fact that I've gone back into my shell and refuse to let anyone in and let anything get out. Wrecked because there have been quite a few days, weeks, and even months where I don't recognize myself. Wrecked because this is the first time I am truly wrestling with God and fighting to see how He can be good and loving and protective in the extremely ugly and painful things. I'm truly wrestling with God because I am angry at Him. I've yelled at Him. I've sworn at Him. I find verses about having joy in the Lord difficult to read. Trusting Him is just as difficult. I don't understand, I don't see, and I don't know why the hurt isn't budging. And it's been a year. I'm still asking the same questions I asked during the months I was in Rwanda. I'm still fighting. I'm still wrestling. It's all I can do to trek through every day. It's not pretty. It hasn't been pretty for a year and counting.

Overall summary is that I was clobbered to the ground over a year ago, and I'm still trying to get up from the ashes that were left behind. There are certain things I think about and am reminded of every...single...day. And I'll be honest: I hurt every single day.

And what have I seen among the rubble, among the dust and ashes, among the ugly? What have I seen among the things that don't seem redeemable?

God's unrelenting, intentional, never-ending, undeserving, unearned mercy and grace.

God's grace saved me, and it's His grace that keeps me. That's all.

Just like there is nothing so good I can do to earn His favor, there is nothing so bad
I can do to Him turn away from me.

He does not give up or run even when I have.

He's not done with me because I'm still alive, even though there have been many
times this past year where I shouldn't be.

I'm sure many of you wonder if I miss Rwanda or if I will ever go back. I do miss it. I miss what I did there. I miss the simplicity. I miss how so different my thinking was. I miss the perspective. Even more I miss the boys. And technically I never got a chance to say goodbye. I hope to go back, I will always have a heart for Africa. But going back won't be for a while.

You might think, ok just get over it. It's not that simple, I'll get over it and move on when God wants me to get over it and move on. Especially when almost every area of my life has taken a hit. I can't force anything myself. I can't will myself to be healed. I can't will myself to understand. I can't will myself to see. There is not a checklist to do, there is not enough Bible reading or praying or going to church or talking with friends that will take the blindfold off my eyes and pick me up from the ground. And I have tried and tried and tried. No matter how much I try, there is nothing I can do to get over the hump. In time and by God's hand. I just don't know how much time. At the same time I have to accept the fact that I will not know all the answers this side of heaven. I just don't know which answers I will be given.

I've held on to this one verse for the past year:

"But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter

formed it into another pot, shaping it as it seemed best to him."

Jeremiah 18:4

AS SEEMED BEST TO HIM. This is the verse I have seen hope and grace in among the ashes. It's His grace that makes me into something that seems best to Him, even if I have to be marred first. 

there and back again

I apologize for such a delay in writing a blog update, especially since I've already been back home for over three months. I will be honest with you...I haven't had the words. I haven't had the words to describe all that happened in a three and a half month time frame in Rwanda. I haven't had the words to tell you all that God has done in my life, heart, and in the lives of the boys on a daily basis and all that He continues to do. I haven't had the words to describe what it was like to make the decision to return home early. I haven't had the words to describe what being back in the US or what the transition back has been like. I haven't had the words to truly emphasize the difficulty of my current season and, to put it bluntly, how God has crushed me.

But I've come to realize that I don't have to have the words. I don't have to perfectly explain, especially the things that even I don't understand. God sees and knows my jumbled, confused thoughts, most of which would sound illogical and irrational to most people anyway.

But know these things:

- My decision to go to Rwanda was the right decision
- My decision to cut my year short was the right decision
- My time in Rwanda was not wasted and God moved in mighty ways
- I miss those boys terribly
- The transition back has not been an easy one
- I wrestle with questions every single day that I may never know the answer to until Heaven
- Struggles are very real and very fierce
- Without a doubt, this is the hardest season of my life thus far
- Only God can heal and make right, and He will
- A long, bumpy road lies ahead, but I ultimately know where it's leading to

I have been there and back again. Somewhere in between my world was rocked, but it's a good thing my Rock never shatters, even when my heart and life feel like they have been.

"It's a dangerous business going out of the door; you step onto the road and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." -Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

teacher! teacher! wqesfyuhugikjgf

Is the above a typo? Or maybe I fell asleep on my keyboard as I typed and forgot to delete it from the title? Nope. This is kinda what it sounds like when my boys start talking to me. They still don't quite get that I'm not fluent in kinyarwanda, let alone understand enough to know what they're saying. They'll just walk right up to me and start sayin' stuff in kinyarwanda and then point some and then wait for my response, which is more or less an awkward silence as I shrug my shoulders and say: "simbiyumva ikinyarwanda (I don't understand kinyarwanda)." But then they'll KEEP talking to me in kinyarwanda. Silly kids. It reminds me of Finding Nemo where Squirt is giving Marlin and Dory a rundown of their exit route--- "Look, you're really cute and all, but I don't understand anything you're saying!" Yeah, my boys are cute, but I don't understand anything they're saying. Praise the Lord for translators.

Buuut, you aren't reading this blog because of my language woes. You might be wondering what a typical day is like with these little guys. Well, lemme tell ya, days with them are a hoot; there's never a dull moment and I'm never quite sure what's coming at me every day. I go into the day with some sort of plan, but within a matter of minutes it's disintegrated.

They come in to where I work (there are a couple classrooms next to my office) in the mornings and we'll have class until noon. I've been working with the lower grades, so we've being going over things like letters, numbers, shapes, colors, etc. They'll eat lunch at noon and then come back to class until 2-3 in the afternoon. After lunch we'll normally work on English and play a game of sorts (they're rather fond of musical chairs and Simon Says haha). After lunch I'll also read a Bible story to them, talk them through it, and have them ask questions.

After class is over I take care of their medical issues i.e. their cuts, bruises, gaping wounds, and infections. I swear I'm going to leave Rwanda as a medical professional. You wouldn't BELIEVE some of the stuff that these kids come in with. I've been an athlete my whole life and have had my fair share of bruises and gaping wounds, but the stuff that these kids have make ME nauseous.

As I said before, every day is a different day and there is never a dull moment. I teach the lessons that we don't think twice about, such as the importance of not stealing, not lying, and not fighting. Then there are the classroom rules that I have to establish here that would never be a rule in a classroom in the US. For instance, this morning I walk into class where the boys are waiting for me. One runs up with a water bottle full of GRASSHOPPERS. Now, mind you, these things are bright green and are about as long as your finger. I had one fly into my face this past week when closing my curtains at home, so, naturally, when I saw a water bottle full of creepiness, I screamed and about ran out of the classroom. Of course, the boys thought it was hysterical, so everyone started pulling grasshoppers out of their POCKETS. I screamed again and tried to get the boys to throw them outside. That's when my translator explained to me that they had caught them so they could eat them later (no joke). It was quite the predicament; do I make the boys throw away their food or do I suck it up and let them keep them? It's Africa, so I made it a rule that the grasshoppers that are to be eaten later MUST be kept in their pockets, NOT in their hands during class, and AWAY from my face at all times. And water bottles full of grasshoppers must be kept on the opposite side of the room. Save it for snack time, boys.

heaven rejoices

Today is a good day because Heaven rejoices grandly today. The angels are going crazy and God is delighted. There is party going down along the streets of gold. Why?

At least 15 of my boys placed their trust in Jesus today.

I don't have a play-by-play account, no dramatic story...just the grace and miracle of God, which in itself is amazing. It's the same grace and the same miracle that drew me to Himself almost five years ago. It's the same grace and miracle that overcame many distractions from the Word in the past week (such as a bleeding child). It's the same grace and miracle that did something in these boys hearts that they couldn't help but be silent as they heard about the great love of Jesus. It was the love, grace, and work of God that led the boys to stand up, to come to the front of the classroom, and one-by-one explain to my translator and I the decision they were making and what it meant to them.

It was a gift of God to hear these boys say that they want to follow the Lord, love the Lord, be close to the Lord, and obey the Lord. It was a gift of God to be able to help the boys pray and hear 15ish voices at the same time (though, in a language I don't understand) ask Jesus to come into their lives. And it was a gift of God to pray with them and over them as their lives have changed forever.

Salvation isn't about big, dramatic voice-in-the-sky stories. It's about God's love and His grace. That's what's so amazing.

Pray for these boys. Pray they would grow up to be men of God who love Him and treasure Him.

october in pictures

My friend, Steph, and I riding a boda boda (Uganda's motorcycle taxis)

Visiting the nursery school that Steph worked at in Uganda. Yes, the kid is picking their nose and yes, they went crazy over my 5-toed shoes.

We finally finished the home visits that were necessary to getting the next group of boys started. This is  one of the new boys (little guy bottom right) and his family.

I discovered a good place to study for my upcoming final exam for the theology class I've been taking. Has a pretty awesome view of Rwanda AND WiFi! 

My youngest sister's birthday was this month. I had the boys sing her a little somethin' :)

My first home-made breakfast that did not involve eating my body weight in doughnuts. I made chapati (the tortilla-like thing that you see) from scratch and had eggs with tomatoes and onions with it. Also had mango and pineapple and yes, a Sprite. Breakfast of champions. Total cooking time (at least for the chapati anyway): 3 hours. Crazy.

We got shelves installed in our kitchen! So now everything doesn't have to be out on the counters! Our shelves were very exciting until we woke up the next morning to find mold all over them. They were cleaned and painted today, so hopefully we'll go back to our excitement :)

One of the boys, Fabrice, lost his first tooth! He was so excited. What a cutie :)