Mama Suzanne.

I walked home with Mama Suzanne today. I was heading out for a walk and saw her leaving the Cottage and asked if I could join. And I tell you what, these Mama’s are amazing. They’re like the Grandmother on the front porch, always welcoming you in for tea and cut strawberries—which are somehow always already cut. And they’re like the supermom-multi-tasker who can twiddle her thumbs, cook dinner, sing you a song and juggle—all with a smile on her face. And they’re like the energizer bunny, who works all day, walks a lengthy distance home to care for her family, does some sort of beading, or handi-work to put her children through school, sleeps at some point and then rises early to walk into the same schedule the next day. And they’re like the prayer warrior at your church who always asks how she can be praying for you…and you know she actually does. And these are some of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. (One small challenge with my Mamas today was that they spoke zero English. A lot is “watch and learn” here, but today it was especially so.

Anyway, Mama Suzanne and I walked into town and stopped at her church—a big, revival-like building with lots of Ugandan women standing outside dressed to the nines and preparing for their Thursday prayer time. Mama Suzanne told me about her family and history of moving from Gulu in 1989. We discussed “Girlsoldier,” a book I’m reading about northern Uganda (a lot of which references, Gulu, a northern city still severely war-torn…if people are living, they are living in refugee camps and the treatment of children remains massively abusive and tragic) and she further explained thoughts of the nationalist parties and warlords. Her husband was killed as a soldier, leaving her with four children (she’s since adopted another from Amani), each of whom live in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, about 90 minutes (by car or taxi) west of Jinja.

I asked Mama Suzanne if she was a Christian and she said, “Oh, yes,” almost like ‘how could I not be, given that I’m standing here talking to you?’ I asked if it was ever hard to believe God, given what she’s been through? She said absolutely not. Her profession as a Christian is one of faith, not sight, so that never could there be an atrocity so bad that it turned her from Christ, especially when she remembers His atrocity for us. She said she can not get discouraged when she remembers His victory—all she can do is wait and let the world know of Him while she is waiting. I told her her faith was larger than mine.

***

I met Titus and Freddy walking home for the orphanage. Both were handsome boys of nineteen. The asked about my job here and wondered if I’d be able to communicate more (guys are the same on every continent J). I asked they knew their names, or Titus’ at least, were in the Bible. He said, “Yes,” with a big smile, “and I am a born again Chris-t-eean, is not that ironic?” I laughed.

***

Home Would be Easier.

For a lot of reasons. And I’m wanting easier tonight.
I’m tired of being dirty. Even on my cleanest day, I’m dirty.
I’m tired of everything around me being dirty. Smells were nauseating at first, but now the realization that everything smells bad makes me numb to it.
I’m tired of being around tears.
I’m tired of everything I want not being simple to get.
I’m tired of walking down the street and everyone staring.
I’m tired of walking down the street and seeing men with guns in their hands.
I’m tired of poverty.
I’m tired of unfamiliarity.
I’m tired of feeling so many emotions.
I’m tired of not knowing the language—or money conversions, or idiosyncrasies, or street names, or …
Home would be easier. And I’m wanting the easy life tonight.

Tickled Pink.

Hands down, one of my favorite parts of the day is “wake-ups.” Because I’m with preemies much of the time, I get bonus wake-ups throughout the day, including mornings, and then morning, afternoon and evening naps. When we’re on our lunch break though, all the kids are napping and I like to walk around to the different rooms and pray over them. Today as I was looking in on some of the 2’s, I couldn’t help but respond to their giddy games, where they acted as if they didn’t know I walked in, but couldn’t hide it with their erupting giggles. I can’t think of many more priceless sites than six hot-pink, cloth diapers bouncing up and down to the rhythm of black baby girls. It didn’t take long before their laughs got out of hand and Mama Margaret came to regulate. Game over.

***

Moments of Church.

I took Christina to church with me today. Amani is really lax on taking the babies in and out, so that we could even bring them home to sleep with us if we wanted. For one: they trust us, two: It’s good to get the kids out and three: TIA—This Is Africa. Christina is about two and a half and as adorable as they come. Her stomach is protruded from malnutrition/absorbtion, but other than that, she’s a gentle, healthy girl. When I arrived I wasn’t sure who I’d take, but she seemed most eager. Mama Denise was all excited for her and said she must put on her Sunday garb. So we raided to the Toddler Closet and found some pink-flowered shoes and a lovely dress to match. Christina was glowing.

I’d gone to a Calvary Chapel service at 8am (always a good bet to hit-up the early service here…there’s usually an 8am and a 10am and if you choose the latter, prepare to be there for a long while) and wanted to visit another church in town. The kids aren’t awake early enough to make the 8am service, so it worked out well to run by the orphanage on my way to “Jinja’s Church of Christ.” Among other things, our fifteen minute walk (well, my walk/her carry) to town passed-by three cows, one gunman, a witch-doctor and two Muslim Mamas. Church itself felt really right. Calvary was good, too, but didn’t have the warm spirit of this second church.

Aside from a truthful sermon and welcoming crowd of about a hundred, highlights were the boy in front of me with enormous trousers and a forgotten-to-zip fly, and the beautiful girl beside me, with frazzled braid-weaves and a laced white dress. Beads of sweat decorated her porcelain face, and profuse shivering her delicate body. She laid in her mother’s arms and sang softly the praises of Jesus. When I asked later if she was okay, her mom answered in tearful, broken English, “The clinic say she is Malaria or “the Disease” (AIDS).” Heartbreaking. A final high was a moment in the hour-long worship set at the front-end of church (2nd services are bound to go at least a few hours). Christina was asleep in my arms and hidden in the crevice between my neck and shoulder. As the Church sang loudly in Luugandan, my tears caught the beams of incoming light and prisms covered my lense. My eyes closed in awe, knowing this scene would be revisited in heaven. Oh, and on a less serious, or spiritual note, well…I guess it could be if you wanted, Christina peed on my skirt. When I asked if she needed to go to the bathroom, she looked at me with her innocent, big brown eyes and whispered, “Auntie Abbie, it is done.”

***

Starting to Read the Bible.

I’ve read the Bible less this year than any since becoming a Christian (freshman year of college, seven years ago). Odd, given that it was my first year of seminary, where most might assume all you do is read the Bible. What I did more this year, however, than all those years combined, was pray. I should say “engage in prayer,” only because to pray feels quite active and the prayer I experienced this year was more about dialoguing and most about hearing from God, as oppose to talking at Him. In a lot of ways this was really scary, as the Bible quickly becomes a crutch for our faith and experiences of solitude, or silence with God, bite the dust. Similar to church-going, Bible Studies, or volunteer work, time serving God takes the place of time with God (don’t get me wrong, these two can go together, but the line is really, really shaky…and I had fallen off it). Anyway, after a year of learning to be with God, apart from any necessary additives (a journal, the Bible, a sermon, or book), it’s been refreshing to feel “ready” and desirous of revisiting His Scriptures. Who knows how He’ll lead my days ahead, but for now at least, it’s been nice to (re)engage with God’s Word—as my nourishment and Bread—but not as a sole Source. No matter how much reading, study, or Scripture memory I do, I’m slowly learning to trust that there is always a more dynamic “Person” waiting to ‘be’ with me—to rest with me, and I with Him. The Trinity is far more encompassing than a Book and far more encapsulating than an approach, or describable ascent. So after a long year of breaking down this facet of my faith, it feels good and right to be reading the Bible again.

***

Bugs.

I swallowed a bug today, which for a few reasons, felt a little scarier than normal. Oh well.

I’ve figured out a way to charge my computer at home, so can write periodically and take a USB port to the Internet Café in the village. Writings will be just as much journal reflections, as they will updates, so feel free to skim when I get too verbose. And again, I apologize that this site will suffice for most my emailing, but it literally takes at least a minute to pull up each page…it’s like the elderly version of DSL.

Friends from the Rain.

Storm clouds rolled in while out for a walk this evening, which felt nice coming from the eternally sunny LA. Literally, I’ve not seen rain in months—and haven’t heard thunder since last summer in Atlanta. It started pouring and I was on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. Randomly/typical of God, I came upon a church with an outdoor covering. Two sweet boys were there, stopped the rain, too, en route home from school. They were about 3 kilometers into their 9k walk (one way, that is), so I told ‘em I’d trudge with them for a bit. Though sixteen (they told me 19, but there’s no way J), their English was really poor. I assumed everyone would know English here, given that it’s Uganda’s first language. The actual meaning of that, however, is that if one is educated/schooled, that’s their first language. But school is exorbitantly expensive, so that to be educated at all is a big accomplishment and much dependent on the size and financial abilities of your family. (Sidenote here, but I grew up being told “anyone can do anything they want if they just put their mind to it.” I never could get my mind to agree with this statement and as I continue to experience new life and culture, I see why—it is not true. In America, it may be a lot of the time, but in most places around the world, the idea of free education, accomplishment and experience is far from the norm, and in fact, exceptionally rare). Anyway, we shared sporatic and simple questions and thoughts regarding family, jobs and life in Uganda. I wasn’t surprised to hear that their goal in life was to get to the States. Crazy how that goal repeats itself around the world—I remember wealthy grad- students in China telling me the same thing. Regardless of the upbringing, or dream, America is the sought after finish line. What a tragedy to think people spend their entire lives getting to a place that has just as much, if not more, overfed, but malnourished hearts than anywhere on the globe. As the guys parted on a muddy, desolated trail, I figured my company was probably wise to depart. The rain had picked up again and I was quite a trek from the Cottage. I bid my new friends farewell and off we went.

My First Visit to the Orphanage.

There aren’t words to describe what it feels like to see a baby diseased by AIDS. The devastating pictures that flash across infommercials aren’t exaggerations and the reality of having those pictures “alive” in your arms is breathtaking, literally. It's difficult to tell if a child has HIV or AIDS until they’re at least two years old, and since many of the sixty babies at Amani are under that age, it’s hard to say how many are infected (they can be tested at birth, but for awhile the mom's antibodies are still present, so the tests result positive regardless). It’s easy to recognize that all are sick, some being more obvious then others. Regardless of whether they turn out to be infected with the virus though, each of these lives has been saved from a tragic circumstance that will likely scar them for the remainder of their days on earth. Although fed and cared for constantly, most of the infants still have severe congestive and digestive ailments. and their little immune systems are so weak that if one gets sick, they all do...meaning all are sick pretty much all the time. Anyway, so much maturation happens in the first year, physically and emotionally speaking, that even an abundance of care on these fronts may never be sufficient to win the children back to health. The hopes flood beyond that though, prioritizing health and survival, but investing just as much and probably more through pouring prayer, physical touch and pure love over these lives.

The first baby I held was “Precious,” a six-month old baby girl who struggles to breath clearly and hasn’t developed the muscles to keep her head-up, but she smiles every time you kiss her cheek and she is the most curious little girl I’ve ever met. I was trying to explain to her today that she needed to drink her bottle—her tummy is swollen from malabsorbtion and she is rare to keep a bottle down. She didn’t hear me though J. All Precious wanted to do was stare at the flowers we were sitting around and make eye contact with every bird that chirped us a greeting (and there were a lot of them!).

The orphanage is about a five-minute walk from the volunteer home (which I should clarify as more than just a “room with cots.” It’s an actual house, so that we have a full (but keep in mind, primitive) kitchen, resting area with a big table, a nice porch and big backyard for the compost and laundry hanging. Electricity comes and goes, so that most nights are spent reading or talking by candlelight and accompanied by the music of animals, distant songs from the “mama’s” (women) who leave nearby, or an iPod J). The cottage sits kind-of hidden on a desolate dirt road, but you can’t miss its entrance, told by the joyful voices and laughter of children. Entry can’t help but find you covered with clinging babies and innocent smiles that grip your heart. Adorable. Incredible. Beyond words.

Different rooms are flooded with different aged babies, all ranging from preemie to six (at which time they’re taken to foster homes, if not already adopted). There are about 20 Ugandan staff who alternate from day and night shifts and then however many volunteers from around the world are serving (ranges in number given the time of year).

(continued from last entry) ...ings happen regardless, but aren’t necessarily felt. We do a range of things, and practice a reaching number of addictions, obsessions and habits that keep us from knowing what we’re really feeling. The scary thing is that a lot and maybe most the time, (the Church definitely included), these means are promoted as good. Anyway, I’m sure future entries will dig into this more, but for now at least, hear me say that I’m honored to learn from these infants what it means to be honest with myself and not fear or falsify the ongoing stream of emotion bubbling inside me.

Okay, that was a big tangent. Anyway, tasks around the house are what you’d guess for this age and number of kids, but there are quite a few TIA (“this is Africa”) or uniquely Ugandan ones that will share as time unfolds. Diapers are washed and lined by hand, so that’ll comprise a good bit of the day, especially given that most the preemies are sick and constantly battling diarreah and throwing-up. Feeding, holding, cleaning, walking, bathing and massaging are the other main tasks. There’s a clinic on-site, too, which doesn’t have a baby in its incubator right now, but probably will within the next couple weeks. The thought of helping in there is both exciting and scary to me—I love health and medicine, but the fragility of these infants is beyond compare.

A New Day.

I don’t understand the full scope of how big this day is, but parents who’ve been waiting to adopt from Amani for years, literally, were cleared by the judge today. For various reasons, their cases have been put off five and ten times (many of which the parents flew over to be present and then had to return home empty handed). For whatever reason though, God chose that today the case would happen and today the judge would concede. Amani is full right now, with sixty kids at the Cottage. This date sets at least twenty of them free—free to gain access to life and love in homes, verses an orphange and longetivity, versus a makeshift home of security to a certain age. Again, the weight of this day isn’t nearly as emotional as it is for the other volunteers and staff, but I rejoice with them and rejoice with the Lord at this new day—for many parents, for many infants at Amani, and for many abandoned kids, who can now find space to be welcomed into the Cottage.

Random:
*As an image centered being—and woman, at that, it’s been refreshing to not collide with a mirror for a few days. Amazing what that’ll do to decrease obsessions with self, body and image—and likewise, what it does to redefine framings of beauty, again, even in just a short number of days.
*Showers try to stay to a maximum of every few days. And they’re usually cold. And the water is usually not too much heavier than a drip. The first time caught me pretty-off guard, wondering if two months of this was what I really wanted…everything since has felt oddly comfortable. Amazing how quickly you can acclimate to a lifestyle—and even feel at home with a lifestyle in a matter of days. For me, at least, a life of simplicity, quiet and serving finds me most alive to live and most spaced to love and be loved. Remind me this whenever you'd like :).
*My stomach is in knots this afternoon. Could've been the water, or could've been the fried fish eyes in my stew at lunch. Nice.
*Shorts are a no-go, no matter how hot it gets (low 100’s seems to be the norm). I guess this means shaving will be too.

I arrived safely last night after a really long travel plan. Was overnighted in Philly, Dulles and almost Addis Ababa, but after an half hour of three big black men yelling foreign questions in my face, I somehow ended-up with a hand written boarding pass and the last seat on a flight (which found me next to an African woman dressed in full garb with piercings out of every hole to be seen).

Waited at the Entebbe airport for three hours before my driver, Abdula, arrived. I told him this is kinda like "fashionably late" in America. From there we made a three-hour trek through trafficed streets of Kampala to our eventual landing point in Jinja. Last night I couldn't see this, but the city is bordered by Lake Victoria and happens to be at the point where the Nile begins and heads north to Egypt. It's HOT here and although well populated (second largest city in Uganda), still very primitive. I've not seen the class differences, or horrific ghetto-like areas like in Soweto or Capetown, but it's almost as if the city as a whole (and the route from Entebbe to here at least) lives in a less severe, maybe, form of poverty--but deep poverty nonetheless.

The volunteer quarters I'm staying in are in many ways what I predicted, and in many ways not. There are about fifteen of us there now, who sleep in an open room on cots (decorated by mosquito nets) and share a cold-water shower and bathroom. For an introvert who enjoys alone time, this will surely lend me some lessons...people seem to come and go as they please though and really respect one another's space. Sometimes we'll eat dinner together, but for the most part, we're on our own for breakfast and dinner and eat traditional Uganda meals for lunch at the orphange. My schedule will include 8-5pm shifts (with the premies :)) on MWSat and TThur mornings I'll spend 1 on 1 time with a toddler (taking them to town for a meal, walk, play games, etc.). Fridays and Sundays I'll have off, and the afternoons and evenings are at my disposal.

At this point at least, I can't imagine a more fitted schedule for where I am with myself and the Lord right now. With loads to process and further work into from the last year, in particular, unchallenged hours of prayer, journaling and strolling the steets of Jinja are again, more than I could've asked for or expected. And to be allowed to do so on the fringes of caring for orphaned babies somehow puts icing on an already matchless dream.

Internet access is available, but really, really slow. Responding on this site might be your best bet, but I still can't promise repsonses. I will update it often though and know that even if you don't hear back from me, your words are truly encouraging to my days and experiences here.

I pray that you are well, whereever you are today and look forward to talking soon. Thanks for joining into this summer with me. It clearly has a lot in store for us.

Love, abbie

It's been a really special day in Philly, celebrating my grandfather's life and the lasting legacy he leaves behind. We enjoyed a packed Quaker meeting this morning, which spilled into a really nice afternoon and evening with the family. The weather couldn't have been more stunning and truly, the only missing piece was the celebrated one, himself.

My sister and brother-in-law will take me to airport in a few hours for a 6am flight to D.C. From there I'll make a 20ish hour trek to Ethiopia, and then a final five or so to Entebbe, Uganda. Not terribly psyched about this air-time, but "a process is required," so I'm slowly learning, "in order to reach a true destination."

I'll be in touch when I'm able.
Blessings to you,
abbie

Dear Friends,

I hope this email finds you well.

Wanted to pass-along my whereabouts and warn you of a lacking correspondence through August. Freshman year of grad-school is complete and I’m grateful to share that my summer will be spent in Jinja, Uganda. The first week will be sporadic in location and service, but my remaining time will be at Amani Baby Cottage (www.amanibabycottage.org), which houses orphaned and HIV/AIDS infants. Days will take part in mundane and massive roles like sweeping floors, changing diapers and holding babies—a dream and honor that exceeds words.

Time online will be sparse, but I’ll update the journal at www.keepingyourfaith.com as often as possible. Snail mail will be an option, too (delivery ranges from 2-3 weeks):

Amani Baby Cottage
Att: Abbie Smith
P.O. Box 1799
Jinja, Uganda

May the Rest of God go boldly before your summer.
With Love,
abbie

I didn’t cry much as a kid. One memory that stands out though, was New Year’s Eve, 1989. I was traveling with my family, lodging at a Day’s Inn somewhere between Charlotte and D.C. Approaching midnight, my young senses were tiring, yet a fresh determinacy latched to my eyelids. “The end” was growing close and I was growing more and more desperate to be with it—to be with 1989. It seemed the end of an era to my eight-year-old mind, and I was crushed. Devastated. How could it leave!? How could it depart so quickly and never come back!? Was it really never coming back!? I couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t want to deal with it. I was mad at the year. Angry that it would enter my life so richly and yet hold the audacity to depart. Tears poured as the television dropped the Times square ball. I simultaneously made every effort to “save the year” by scooping its last breaths into a salad dressing bottle. 1989 was gone. Death had confronted me.

And it did so again last night.

After 89 incredible years (I didn’t put that number connection together until now), my grandfather died. It wasn’t a painful death, or an unexpected one, but it has been painful and unexpected, because it was death.

I went for a walk after I found out. I was at a friend's house, who lives on a street that somehow never ceases to catch my emotions off-guard. Massive trees shade it by day, while night decorates it with hints of moonlight, painting an exceptionally magical glow. Daylight was still at hand though, as I departed in search of some cognition of the dangling news. As the road neared its end, I turned left down a side street, intrigued by its backdrop of the day’s setting sun. Memories of my grandfather were flowing at this point, with strands of life’s questions sparking like fireworks. Red roses flirted with emerald grasses and blue-hued birds painted the landscape. I felt stunned. Awed. Challenged by life and death. And channeled toward some essence of greater Life and Governance over death. I couldn’t help but recall the day before, too, when similar feelings engaged me at the ocean. Waves so protective and unending…yet so intimate and aggressive in their pursuit of my presence on the beach.

I settled on the curb to watch the remaining beams of sun dip into the horizon. David Gray’s lyrics of, ‘…life in slow motion…somehow it don’t seem real,’ reverberated in my mind. It was the longest sunset I’ve ever seen. Minutes felt like hours and if it weren’t for brisk air and friends I wanted to return to, I would’ve stayed for the remainder of the night. I was paralyzed by the moment—the moment entering sorrow and death, and off the same fence, entering satisfaction and life.

I feel a lot like I did that New Year's Eve. My tears are challening the reality of my Grandfather's passing, fighting so hard to make death un-die. I just want to be with him. I just want to be with his life. But I can't. His time on earth has passed. Like 1989, his year is finished. What I know now, however, that I didn’t know as an eight-year-old, is that 1989 would never fully leave me. Given memories and memorable shapings (and being stuck in a glass jar in my attic), the reality of that year's existence can't leave me.

When we let reality in, it scars us. When we let ourselves be real, and let something be real with our selves, we’re touched in a way that can never fully leave. Though death became a man named my grandfather last night, etchings of that man’s life will never be fully lost. To that end, I am grateful.

"Dumbing Us Down: The Hidden Curriculum of Compulsory Schooling"...

One of the best books I've ever read.

A MUST for any teacher, parent, student, or person concerned with humanity.

Have you ever felt inconclusive? Unable to synthesize, or tie-up a thought? Here I stand. And mind you, I was never one of these people. Especially in writing, I’ve always been able to begin, body and conclude a work quite easily. Not anymore—in writing, or otherwise. The Lord has brought me to new frontiers, where bearings and clarity are yet to be told. So take the following two entries for what they’re worth—unfinished and undone in many ways, but believing, by faith, that Sight is coming.

***

Behind the Sunglasses and Script

Hope. A word overused, yet underrated. Four letters capable of taking a life, or letting one live.

I’ve never allowed myself to attach to hopes as I have this semester. In the same breath, however, I must say I’ve never gotten comfortable with the blind risk of such doing.

I’ve intentionally hoped in a lot of things lately. And doing so has forced me out-of-control, a haven I’ve rested in for far too long. But what do you do when your hope doesn’t respond? When your heart’s longing doesn’t pan out? I liked a boy. I hoped it would work out. It didn’t. I hoped my drug addict friend would find shelter, security and a Savior. To my knowledge, she hasn’t. I’ve hoped in various decisions, grades, mirrors and what felt like monologues with God lately, to no avail. I’m still waiting. Still “hoping” in the dark. Believing in a seen hopelessness. There may not be a more crazy phenomenon.

Hope never fails and yet hope never promises. It never ceases to exist, and yet never shoves its existence. It’s a choice. A surrender of sorts. To what though? To a desire …to an end…to God? Where is hope leading and where does it come from? And how much deference can a hoping heart take?

I’m writing this in a posh coffee shop in Beverly Hills (Peets, if you’re ever hoping for the best latte known to man). I don’t get to this part of town too often, but I always seem to learn a lot when I do. In a matter of minutes, I’ve been confounded again by the hurry, the hiddeness and the hurt exposed by this population. They’re no different than the rest of us, really, but seem that way due to exaggerated investments in sunglasses and sullen faces sealed with masks and masking agendas. Their hope in the next deal, or the next distraction, diet, or dream is just as deep as ours—just more glamorously displayed.

Everyone wants to look like they’re going somewhere. Like they have a purpose in walking through the door. Everyone hopes they’ll look the part—they’ll hide the fact that in actuality they’re a big act. They’re not the real deal. Everyone hopes they can keep the lie covered—the lie that they’re not the person people think—they’re not the put-together persona that people assume.

But what if people found that out?

What if people realized we weren’t what they thought? We weren’t what they hoped for? Could we stand it? Could they stand us?

To hope that no one ever sees ‘the real us’ is to hide from life. And to hide from life is to die.

Leaning into hopes and hoping into what feels like pure desire—and then seeing hopes and desires fade, or take-on rejection, hurts. And hurting feels bad. It needs help. It’s tired. It cannot do life alone. But as we mentioned above, no one wants to take-on such an existence, so we hide behind sunglasses and scripts. But what I’m starting to see is that hurting holds just as much Life as healing. Pain carries just the same weight as pleasure. Neither can ultimately exist without the other.

The death and resurrection of Jesus was one movement. They go hand-in-hand—one doesn’t work without the other. To die in Christ is to be born again. And to live in Christ is to continue dying. To continue hoping. Hope can wait, but it never fails. Hope can hurt, but it never dies.

Lord, help us keep hoping—help us keep believing Your end as the primary mover of every hoped for beginning.

The Lord has brought me on a journey of purging this year—purging through minutes and months of sought after pleasure that used to hold me—but now don’t. Used to keep me full, but now do quite the opposite.

Why would God do such a thing? Such a purgation?

Well, I can’t answer that question in full quite yet, and maybe won’t ever be able to on this side of heaven, but what I can say is this—the stripping that has taken place and that which is in process, or in denial, is right. It’s true, valid movement that I wouldn’t change for anything. That said, however, it’s been the hardest of my life. Not because I moved to California (surfing is fun), or fell into a community that ushers me toward knowness like never before. Such “externals” have been sweet. Internally though, by far, it’s been the most stretching of my life. But also the truest, deepest and maybe first in which I’ve actually lived “alive.”

Life to this point had been a series of experiences and exposures where I discovered a great love for loving people and a greater love for doing so in the name of God. Whether through relating, discipling, writing, serving, or performing, I learned to love and “let be loved” a “saved” Abbie. (In case that’s not as clear as it needs to be, I didn’t need Jesus to love or be loved…I had “been saved” and was thus attempting function out of that position). You can see then, that most of my love was out of, or into, a hiding space, a space of strengths and outward ability.

A lot of that has died this year. Some by choice and some by the grace of God’s stripping. I’ve died to a lot I thought I knew—knew about my self and the world and my self in the world. I’ve died to a lot of habits—habits I knew were bad and habits I thought were good. I’ve died a lot of prides, positions and presuppositions. And I still have a lot of dying to go—a lifetime, in fact. But the irony here—the Greatest irony of All, I think—is that in choosing these deaths, I’ve started to live. By Grace’s allowance encouraging me to die, I’ve actually started to live. To truly be with people—to behold the weights of friendship. To truly be and be alone—in its wholeness and its state of sorrow. Only a Divine Spirit can shadow these risky landings. Only a Savior can hold them. I need the saving grace of Jesus if I’m going to live today. No longer do I spend days medicating with gifts and identities done with excusing masks that’s it’s, “for the glory of God.” Rather, in learning to cry-out for a Savior, I’ve been able to be weak—to embrace my given nature of weakness and need. To laugh. To cry. To be scared, to be hurt and to be helped.

Don’t let me get off this easily though—the last month, in particular, has found me running back to old ways of coping—old wavelengths that separated me from my self and others. I will go to a lot of extremes to avoid the Truth. To avoid being known, loved, liked, or seen. I will empty my life for another, in order to avoid letting another see my emptiness. My imperfection. My confliction. My desperation. But what I cannot negate is that I have tasted truth this year. I have tasted enough of a freedom in weakness—a peace in surrender, that I at least know it’s ‘there.’ It’s willing, if I let It.

The choice, then, remains one of my will.
Am I willing to choose God, when He cannot be felt?
To choose Him, when His ways are yet to be seen, or certainly understood?
Am I willing to trust God?