Being built

I finished the old Testament this morning. Literally, really, truly. I sat with my small white porcelain cup full of milky coffee, and I read the last word in the last prophecy in the last book in my Bible. I wish I could tell you I had a "wow" moment then, after it was all over and done with. Or that I did something dramatic, like burst into tears + sobs. Or even that I celebrated. But I won't lie to you.

I just sat there.

My hand pressed on top of the small leather book that I had been reading out of. Still + silent. I breathed. I thanked God for giving me the grace to travel this far. The sun crept up behind the foggy hills. And I just sat there.

When I finished this morning + I turned the page to the book of Matthew and I looked around me. I was humbled. I could have never imagined that I would be here + now when I finished this half of what I had started so many years ago. Never in my wildest dreams. If at fourteen you had sat me down and pressed a hand against my arm and said, you'll be away from home at twenty-two when you finish Malachi. You'll be different, I would not have believed you. Never. Not for the big white bowl on the beautifully stained shelf that my daddy made. Not for the matching jars or the tins full of tea lining the walls of my kitchen. Not for the daisies on my table. Not for the French I know now. Not for the old books stacked on my pine dresser in my very own bedroom.
Not for anything in the world could you have convinced me back then.

I am so grateful for how far the carpenter has brought me.
How much more He has built me.

So I just sat there, and I thanked Him this morning.
Because I knew then that in however many more years when I actually do finish + read the final word in Revelation + close the little leather book, I have no idea where I'll be. Who I'll be. What I'll be doing. And I become slightly choked + knotted up right now just thinking about that.
God has made me new + more beautiful, and better yet, He can do it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

I am breathless in anticipation for Revelation.
Because I am expecting even more wondrous things to have happened by then. Unimaginable things.

I can't wait for things to be even better than now.

This is a love letter

There was a point in my life, more than ten years actually, when I thought I'd never meet another soul like mine. You know? Someone with the same bones. The same longings. The same hopes and dreams and passions for the Church and my carpenter and wooden boxes full of good things.

A point that is more than ten years long is really a line.

I thought all of you didn't exist. And that may sound just a tiny part silly and a small bit stupid, but before you belittle my distress, let me explain what it was like.
I used to hide the best parts of me. I thought they were my ugliest self. The worst. The sinful. Flesh. I denied myself things. I sacrificed what could have been some of my best explorations and discoveries and epiphanies. Some of my best essays were never written. I woke up in the morning and sat alone at my kitchen table wrapped in a quilt with a cup of tea and my Bible, and I would lay my head on that table, and I would be sad. I would read the birth story, and I would be sad. I would read the death story, and I would be sad. I would read the resurrection story, and I would be sad. Because no one loved Him like I did. Because I loved Him all wrong.

For more than ten years, I thought I loved Jesus wrong. 

I had the smallest secrets. Poetry on the kitchen floor late night. James Bond under my sheets at two in the morning. Lipstick, but only at the house. Pants. Fairytales. Peter Pan. Songs, whispered under my breath outside. Hands that I sat on. Hopes that I killed. Thoughts I never dared to share. I used to hit myself in the thigh, with a fist. I only did it for a little while. I was fourteen I think. But every time I did something wrong, I would punish myself, I would hit myself. Not hard enough to leave a mark, just to feel the sting at impact and the ebbing, dull pain afterwards. That lasted for two weeks or so, until I forgot my morning reading one time and I left a small bruise. I stopped after that. I never told anyone, not even till now.

I was never perfect, but I didn't want people to know that. 

I was alone. It was like I woke up every day, and no one was home. All that was there was an empty white house with empty white walls and an empty white-washed me. A pile of dry bones. Dead. Worthless. I told myself that lie all of the time. You are worthless. I didn't believe even my favorite verses because of that lie. I would read 2 Corinthians 5:17, "Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new," and I couldn't even see those words. I didn't even understand what they meant. Because I was worthless. Because I told myself I was worthless. I would repeat that, daily. You are worthless, you are worthless, you are worthless. It became my mantra, my words to live by. My thoughts were worthless. My life for Christ was worthless. My hands were worthless. My gifts were worthless. I was worthless. I was alone, in everything + all of it. There was no one else like me. I searched continents for all of you. And still, I couldn't find anyone. And so, I was worthless.

I was a piece of driftwood.

I do not want you to think my life was terrible. My life was terribly beautiful. I had a loving family. I had friends. I had kindness. I had books and good food and Jesus. But I wasn't happy. I couldn't be happy. I had everything, it seemed like I had everything, but everything wasn't enough. And I was told, consistently, that there was nothing more. I ran and ran and ran. I looked and looked and looked. I searched and searched and searched. I never made a single discovery. So I believed them. I was wrong, and you weren't real. When I decided that, I almost wanted to die.

I know loneliness. She was my dearest companion. 

I had a dream once. I wrote about it before. It crept up on me in my sleep during one of the sweetest times in my life. The time when I was learning everything and found some of you for the first.
It was about a fox. He was called Childer, and he and I were together. We were going everywhere, quickly. We were searching. And we didn't really stop. I remember being tired in that dream, running + walking next to a little red fox that darted around me as we went. We went down cobble-stoned streets. We went up mountains. We went through caves. We walked through houses. We traipsed through meadows. We conquered peaks. We went and went and went. I thought we would never stop. And just when I was so frustrated in that dream and I could feel the salty tears spilling out of my eyes and onto my pillow in reality, we did stop. On the crest of a hill, overlooking a golden field full of wheat that blinked and winked in the sunlight that was just coming up. We stopped and we sat there. And I felt it. For one of the first times in my life. I actually felt at rest. I actually felt peace.
But it was only a dream.

But when I woke up, it was real too.

There comes a point in everyone's life when you can't blame anyone for how you've been living and who you are anymore. You just can't. And hesitantly, regretfully, clenching your teeth, you accept that it's your fault. In part, if not the whole. Because you are you.
I realize now that I actually did see you. I just didn't want to. I walked by you in the streets. I ignored you in the coffee shops. I scrolled through your words. I passed you by without a second glance. I saw you in bookshops, holding the same books as me. Shamefully, I even have to admit that I judged you. I judged your Americanized way of church. Your loud worship. Your raised hands. Your seemingly cliché prayers. Your mission work and house-building projects. Your lives. Your clothes. Your lack of knowledge or too much theology. Your doctrine. Your music. Your feet. Your heart. I judged your hearts so hard that I riddled them with my disdain.

I'm sorry. 

If I will ask you one thing now, it's that you would not pity me. Please don't pity me. I know that I look to have been a hopeless case, but I have such joy now, and it's because of all of this. It's because of all of this self-inflicted pain and stupidity. So don't do that. Don't feel sorry for me. Don't think me in need of more compassion. Don't think me more sensitive. Don't think me broken. And please don't pity me. I'm strong now. I promise.
I just want to thank you. For everything. Because I know what it feels like, to be lonely. To think that you are the only one. To hold your hands over your eyes while you look for people who have always been right here. You are beautiful. Thank you for showing me how to be beautiful too. Thank you for your grace. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your prayers. For your hopes. For your worship to the same carpenter. For your hands. For your hearts. Thank you. I know what it is like to wake up every morning, cold and with a heart spilling over with despair and a bruise on my thigh turning from blue to green to yellow to nothing. I know, and so thank you. I don't have to do that anymore. I found you. And you have helped me back to my first love, my sweetest ever, my carpenter, my Jesus.
I think we don't tell each other things like this enough. I want you to know that you have changed and you are changing my life. With your words and instagram pictures + captions and blog posts and letters and kindness and extended hands and hopes to meet and have coffee. You are making me better. It is true that Jesus alone has saved my soul and changed my heart, but we are also earthly right now, and so it is you who are changing my life. This is something I can touch, something I can feel, something of dirt + dust and here and now. You are changing it, all of it, and for good. I am so thankful. If my gratitude could be bottled and sent your way, it would last you a hundred lifetimes. Because I want you to know, I can't believe that people who have the same aches and longings in their bones like me exist. I can't believe we are becoming friends.

Finding you was one of the most gorgeous things that ever happened to me. 

I love you. I'm saying it very un-apologetically and unabashedly because the truth is, I do. I adore you. You are inspiring and lovely and full of grace and the spirit. I see that in you. And I know you're only human too. I know that you mess up and you sin and you make mistakes and you need grace too. I am not putting you on a pedestal. I just don't want anyone in their life to feel what I have felt, to feel lonely. To be so lost and saved all at once. To have the best gift of all time, and to ignore it. And since you changed that for me, I want you to know. I will always be here for you. I will always have extended arms. I will be a shoulder for you. I will send you things you need. I can be a friend. I can weep with you. I can learn about you. I will try my hardest to earn the grace you've shown. I will live my life like Jesus, because you do too. I will walk beside you. I will pray with you and for you. I will sing together, all of us. We will praise with the sweetest sounds. No matter what your part in my life is, whether it be letters every month + a growing friendship or an instagram picture with a caption that gives me hope for the day but I don't even comment on it, I want you to know, I will be your friend.

If you ever need me, I'm here. Because even though you may not know it, you have been there for me.

I love you. There is such a love in my heart for all of you now. And it is so right, that sometimes I forget you might need to be reassured that it is there. So, I assure you, it is there. It is just like it says in 1 Peter 1:22. "Seeing ye have purified your souls in obeying the truth through the Spirit unto unfeigned love of the brethren, see that ye love one another with a pure heart fervently." I love you. Fervently.
I woke up this morning, I wrapped a quilt around my shoulders, I mumbled some tired prayers, I piled my hair on top of my head, and I read. And even I was reassured, because it was 1 Peter 2:9 + 10. "But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness in his marvellous light; which in time past were not a people, but are now the people of God: which had not obtained mercy, but now have obtained mercy." Isn't that the most beautiful thing? We have obtained mercy. I have obtained mercy. And we get to be a chosen generation.
I hope this doesn't make you feel odd. I hope you only feel loved and thanked. If you have ever had any part in changing my life or inspiring me or loving me or simply learning about me + being my friend, this letter is for you. It has been a privilege to worship our carpenter together, and I can't wait to do it for the rest of this life, and eternity. You make me excited for that. The fact that Jesus made lovely people like you to do that with makes me excited.

So, I love you + thank you.

How I am getting over myself.

I used to have mornings when I didn't want to get out of bed. For many reasons, but the most prominent that I can remember is that I didn't like who I was. I wasn't happy. And getting out of bed meant that I had to admit that. And also that I had to try to like myself.
I thought my life was amazing. There was no reason for me to be unhappy. It didn't make any sense. And so I would lay there, wrapped in my quilt, wishing the day away. Praying that God would just give me an epiphany and I would suddenly understand why I didn't like my wonderful life.

I used to think I knew everything.

Parcels of lavender.

Tomorrow I'll drive across the mountains and it probably won't look like this, but still. Crossing into Washington from Oregon stirs my heart so well. The ambiance of the nature in the Pacific Northwest is lulling and beautiful and ever-present; I can almost hear it sometimes. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I'm all packed and ready. There's a backpack, a Samsonite, and a princess dress waiting by the front door. Also a tiny parcel of lavender.

When I drive by myself, for hours on end, I roll my window down and just listen. I listen to the wind and the trees and the birds and the cars and the outside of where I am. Sometimes I speak French to myself. I try to make things up, hard things, things I don't remember. I talk; I tell stories, out loud, things I wouldn't dare tell if I was with someone else. I make them up. I try words together, just to hear their sounds. I recite poetry. I sing. And I pray. Sometimes I pray about the things I know that I need to pray for. Sometimes I pray about things I don't know or don't understand or can't remember. And sometimes I just simply thank God.
It is so much easier to remember to thank God when it's you and the road and His nature and six hours ahead. I promise. So much easier.

I like that though. Even though I forget other times, I remember to be thankful when I'm driving. You see so much that you can't really help it. All of your senses are overwhelmed and spilling full of the outside, and you just remember.

I can't wait for tomorrow for many reasons. I get to see my little sister. There will be coffee. Nature. More coffee. Friends. A week of summer camp. And six hours of thanks.