Put Me In Your Pocket

She sat propped up in the wingback chair, leaning against the armrest. Her hands folded in her lap, her snow white hair tousled, her eyes growing misty. She suddenly seemed so fragile to me, seeing her wrapped up in that chair.

My sweet friend, Myrt, sat in that chair grieving the loss of her husband, Paul, of 47 years.

And as I sat next to her in their little apartment, she said through her tears, with a far off look in her eyes, “I kept telling Paul, ‘Put me in your pocket and take me with you because I don’t want to be here without you.’”

Put me in your pocket – because I don’t want to be here without you.

I was nearly a puddle on the floor.

For all the years I have known Myrt, she has always joked she wanted to die 5 minutes after Paul. She wanted enough time to make the bed, clean up the kitchen and then she wanted out of here. She also never wanted to live past 80 years. She hit her 80th birthday and by golly, she was ready to meet Jesus. That 80th birthday came and went over 18 months ago, much to her dismay.

As I sat there in her apartment, crying right alongside her, she grieving the loss of her beloved and me grieving the loss of a man I greatly admired, my heart ached deep within me.

Because what Myrt was saying to Paul was the same refrain I've been hearing over and over again in my own heart in recent weeks in my prayers to Jesus.  And what had been echoing in my heart and rolling around in my head was now being played out in reality right before me, this perfect parallel to all the thoughts I had been sorting through in recent weeks.

I was recently set up on a blind date of sorts with a guy who turned out to be pretty great. We went on a string of dates, but we both eventually came to the conclusion it just wasn't a good match. It ended gracefully and my heart is whole.  That’s not so much the point, though, as the reflection that particular has situation sparked in me. I just remember praying over and over again as I walked through that process, “Jesus, I don’t want more of this if I don’t get more of you.” And I meant it. I didn't want to go one step farther in that relationship if I didn't get more of Jesus.

I kept coming back to Exodus 33:15-16, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here.

Because what is the point in going if, Immanuel, literally translated the “With Us God”, doesn't go with us?

And just like Myrt said to Paul, “I don’t want to be here if you’re not here,” I keep saying to Jesus, “I don’t want to go somewhere if you’re not there.”

It’s not worth it. If you’re not in it, if you’re not here or there or wherever with me, I don’t want to go. Put me in your pocket and take me with you. Because if your Presence doesn't go with me, don’t send me up from here. Dear God, please don’t send me up from here, wherever here might be, in whatever season of life it might be.

I’m no good without you.

Sweet Myrt will say her final goodbyes this week. And I’m sure she’ll keep repeating the refrain over in head, “Paul, I don’t want to be here without you.”

And in similar fashion, I’ll keep saying, “Jesus, I don’t want to go somewhere if you’re not there.”

The Stuff of Bucket Lists and Firearms

Me, on the range at Blackwing

Remember that bucket list I wrote about? I had always wanted to ride horses on the beach, which I was finally able to do this past summer.  But then my friend Alex noted that my list also included "learn how to shoot a gun."

I am thankful for her observation skills.  And I am thankful she is my friend.  And I'm thankful she paid for and went with me to a class Blackwing Shooting Center, one of my new favorite corners of the world.  Nothing like celebrating your 30th birthday by learning how to shoot a firearm.

Mind you, I had never shot a gun before in my life, minus a squirt gun, which clearly doesn't count.

But can I just say, I surprised even myself during the 3-hour, ladies-only course at Blackwing. I LOVED learning how to use a handgun.  I loved the intense concentration it required and I loved completely tuning the world out and focusing solely on that target just down the range.  It was a strangely liberating and empowering feeling.  After I got done, I thought, "Why the heck didn't I do this sooner in life?!"

And it turns out, I'm not too bad of a shot, if I do say so myself.

Twenty five rounds later, all 25 hit the target and a select few make it to the center of the individual targets.  (There was that random stray that hit the very bottom of the target.  I must have zoned out for a second when I fired that shot, but hey - at least it was still somewhere on the target.)

I left Blackwing thinking, "Dang, that was fun - I gotta check my calendar and figure out when I can get back up here to fire off a few more of these things!"

So, thank you to my dear friend, Alex, for helping me cross that one off the bucket list.  I have been introduced to a whole new world that I am thoroughly enjoying (in a non-disturbing way, of course, so nobody needs to be alarmed at my newly acquired fascination with shooting firearms).
        

RIP Not-So-Smart Phone And Other Technology I Should Part With

 I had a moment of silence this past week for my not-so-smart phone.  It decided to die and go to the land of cellphone heaven.  I couldn't even get it to power on anymore.  It just kept flashing the Verizon logo over and over again, almost as if it were sending out its final distress signal.  It lived a good life, being carted around to various parts of the globe.  It was maybe dropped a time or two (or three or four), but I was determined to hang on to it for as long as possible because I hate making upgrades to things like this and I hate paying for them even more.  Which probably explains why I held onto it for as long, a solid run of 4 1/2, if not 5 1/2 years.  We can chalk it up to one part practicality and two parts stubbornness.  Why buy something new when what you've got works perfectly fine (most of the time)?  I did have to activate, much to my dismay and annoyance at a higher phone bill, the smartphone I already had on hand, one I bought over two years ago when I knew I was going to be in Kenya for awhile and it was just going to be easiest to have that kind of technology while traveling, especially for international calls.  I generally go kicking and screaming when it comes to upgrades, but eventually get over it and move on with life.  You just gotta let me stomp my feet for awhile and pitch a fit and then I finally settle into my reluctance.

Note, most of the letters have vanished

There's also my dinosaur of a laptop, which is now over 11 years old.  In the land of technology, that's equivalent to forever.  I bought it the summer I graduated from high school and I've only had to replace the hard drive once.  Otherwise, it has worked like a champ.  Granted, these days it sounds like a small aircraft taking off most of the time because the fan blows quite a bit.  And it probably weighs at least 6-8 pounds, which is a tank compared to what laptops weigh these days.  And most of the letters have worn off due to my constant clacking around on it with long fingernails.  As with my phone, I am reluctant to purchase another laptop until this one officially bites the dust.  I really don't use it that often anyway these days, so why bother spending the money right now?  The IT guys at my office, lovers of all things Apple and current, frequently shake their heads at me and wonder if I was dropped on my head as a child.      

We then have my stereo.  Which I got as a gift for my 16th birthday.  That now makes it 14 years old.  Also, still working like a champ.  It even has a cassette deck as a bonus.  Don't judge.  And don't roll your eyes.  I get that I live in a world that clamors for the latest and greatest and is appalled that I have the same box TV that I had when I was in high school, but maybe this is my small way of taking a stand (albeit a lame one) and pushing back on the world. 

I am well aware of my love/hate relationship with technology and all things social media these days, the constant beeping and buzzing and chirping of machines that we have somehow allowed to rule our lives. 

I have a quote from a book I read once, on a Post-It note stuck to my mirror that says ,"How do you know have ADD or a severe case of modern life?"  I think various people think I have lost my mind when I say I don't have internet in my apartment - or TV - or microwave - or cable. But I love it.  I really, really, really relish it.  I like unplugging from the world and occasionally being unreachable.  I like falling off the map, off the grid, and out of reach. I get to slow down and literally disconnect.  I know someday I'll eventually have to make the trade and buy a few technological appliances that work, but I'm going to stick with the faithful ones I've got right now.

So, farewell, not-so-smart phone.  You were smart enough for me and that's all that mattered.        

Learning to Breathe

Learning to breathe

I'm learning to crawl

I'm finding that You and You alone can break my fall

I'm living again, awake and alive

I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies

- Switchfoot, "Learning to Breathe"

  __________________________________

My doctor told me recently that I have been "unconsciously dysfunctional."

Thank you, doc.  And welcome to thirty, Courtney.

In all fairness, he said it with much graciousness, gentleness and compassion.  And what he was really saying was that I have been very much unaware of how my physical body does not work properly, especially when it comes to things like stability and breathing.  I continue to have troubles with my back and it's become a source of great discouragement and frustration.  He suspects that over the course of time, and probably due to my years spent riding, I picked up a few bad habits along the way when it comes to how I physically move and function.  I had been blissfully unaware of such issues.  And now I'm paying the price.

He went on to say that we need to move me from unconsciously dysfunctional to consciously dysfunctional to consciously functional to unconsciously functional.

Story of my life summed up in one single statement, the constant migration between awareness and ignorance, functionality and dysfunctionality.

One of the key things he's been emphasizing is the necessity of learning to breathe properly.  I apparently breathe a lot through my chest and the upper half of my lungs instead of really learning to breathe through my belly.  The domino effect this creates is wreaking havoc on the rest of my body.

Sometimes I wonder if my whole life I've been inhaling and exhaling all wrong, both literally and figuratively.

Because maybe here - on the eve of turning thirty - I'll finally start learning what it really looks like to breathe.

The Stuff of Bucket Lists and Dreams

I think I started my bucket list back in middle school at some point.  I started making a list of things I wanted to accomplish, see or do in my lifetime.  Own a Great Dane. Travel to Italy, Ireland, and a host of other corners of the world.  Learn how to shoot a gun.  Learn how to drive a stick.  Go to the Kentucky Derby.  It's a random assortment of things and I have filled several pages since starting that list, with each year things getting added and checked off. 

Riding horses on the beach had been on the list for quite a while.  I don't know that I had a specific place in mind, I just wanted to ride horses on the beach somewhere on planet earth. 

The possibility presented itself when I was making plans for my New Zealand trip.  I dismissed the idea after awhile, though, because the place where I looked was too far away and transportation was going to be a problem because I didn't want to have to rent a car.  I was a little bummed about the fact that it probably wouldn't work out after all, but I let it go. 

While in New Caledonia, I had mentioned to one of the staff members with Cru, Don, who was based in Auckland along with his wife and son, that I had been wanting to go riding on the beach but would probably have to pass on the opportunity.  He offered and said they would actually like to go too, so why don't we all just go together?  He didn't have to work hard at convincing me. 

So, that weekend when I arrived in Auckland, we made plans to head to the beach that Sunday. They would pick me up downtown where I was staying and then mosey on over to Muriwai beach, on the west coast of New Zealand.  His wife, Melody, said the west coast was much more "wild and woolly" than the east coast of the island.

She wasn't kidding. 

It was rugged terrain, with the cliffs just dropping off into the ocean.  The roar of the waves could be heard from a distance and the sand was charcoal black, proof of the island's volcanic history. My eyes watered on occasion from the salty air.

It happened to be somewhat chilly that day, something I hadn't really factored in when packing.  The wind was blowing off the ocean, dropping the temperatures even more.  By the time we got around to riding, I had managed to bundle into a pair of jeans with leggings underneath, a long sleeve shirt, a fleece jacket, my ScottE Vest, a windbreaker and scarf.  I was just wishing I had earmuffs and gloves. Probably not the wisest idea to go riding on the beach when it's in the middle of the winter in the Southern Hemisphere. 

But you throw caution to the wind in pursuit of your bucket list, right?

It felt good to be on the back of a horse again, at least mentally.  My body was saying otherwise, though.  I think it had been at least 5 years since I had last ridden and probably another 6 years before that.  And there have been a whole lot of back problems since then so I had fleeting moments when I thought to myself, "My doctor would probably not be very happy to know I'm doing this right now."  Especially after the horrific pain I had gone through this past spring and the fact that I was still experiencing some troubles. But thankfully, I made it through the ride somewhat pain-free.  Minus the protest from my knees from having my stirrups too short.  

When we got to the end, some storm clouds had rolled in and rain splattered my face.  But a picture-perfect reminder greeted me when I went to climb down from the flea-bitten gray mare, a sweet closing to what had been a sweet two weeks of life.  I looked up and there was a full rainbow stretched across the sky.  It was just the reminder I needed, a reminder that God's faithful, his promises are true.  

And I was living my dreams.       

 

Picture-perfect ending to my bucket list ride

 

Me, Don, Melody and Jack getting ready to ride

Don't Miss the Josephines of This World

I have found the older I get the more I enjoy being by myself.  I love going to the movies by myself, catching a show on Saturday mornings. (The latest was The Fault In Our Stars. I cried through most of it.)  I like going on roadtrips by myself. (Eight hours in the car to Missouri with nothing but me and some music? Sign me up.)  I like traveling overseas by myself. (The sweet bliss of two days in New Zealand.  I'd do it again in a heartbeat.)

I haven't decided if this is good or bad yet.  

I think a large part of it has to do with my singleness.  I made a decision a long time ago that I couldn't - and wouldn't - put life on hold even if there was nobody beside me.  There was too much living to do in the meantime and I didn't want to miss it because of fears.

That resolve has grown over time.

I think of all the adventures I would have never gone on because nobody was with me.  I wouldn't have moved out to Missouri to go to school.  I didn't know a soul when I went.  I would never have gone to Kenya. I didn't know anybody the first time around to Kenya. (On the second trip, my boyfriend at the time was supposed to go with me.  When he told me he decided not to go - and then proceeded to break up with me the next day - he asked me if I was still planning on going even though he wasn't.  I think I must have looked at him like he had just asked me the dumbest question in the world. Duh. Of course I'm still going.)  I would never have gone to North Carolina.  Or New Zealand.  Or a whole lot of other places in between.

I was reminded of the value of this resolve this past Saturday, this idea that there is so much life you miss when you choose to sit on the sidelines, even if no one is next to you.

My mom had free tickets to the zoo, asked if I wanted them.  I had checked with a couple of friends but no one else could go.  I decided to go anyway, mainly because I love the zoo and because I was looking forward to the time alone.

I got there right as the zoo opened and wandered around for a bit, checking out the new Heart of Africa exhibit and some other exhibits nearby.

I eventually ended up at the beaver exhibit.  There was no one else around except for this elderly woman on her scooter.  We struck up a conversation, small talk really, about the beavers and what not.

She then went on to explain that she was at the zoo for the first time as part of her bucket list, anxious to meet Jack Hanna, our Director Emeritus, known world-wide.

Come to find out, she was a British immigrant, having immigrated to the States back in 1953.  She had enlisted in the British military when she was just a little over 17 and then served during World War II.  An organization called The Twilight Wish Foundation was granting her wish that day, setting up a personal meet-and-greet with Jack later that day.

I was fascinated by her British accent and what little bit of her story she had already shared with me.  I asked her if I could tag along and show her around the zoo.  She kindly accepted and off we went.

I loved every minute spent with her that morning.  She was a sassy, chatty, little Brit, full of spunk and no-nonsense attitude.  All 89 years of her life unfolded as we walked - or as she said, "motored" - around the zoo.  She had this endearingly candid personality about her.  She kept telling me I could go off on my own whenever I wanted, but I told her I had no agenda for the day and I enjoyed her stories too much to part ways just yet.  I think we were probably a couple hours into the morning before I finally learned her name - Josephine.

About three hours later, after many stories and nearly walking my legs off, I deposited her at the stage area where she was scheduled to meet Jack.  I shook her hand, thanked her and walked off into the crowd, completely unaware of the mini-celebrity I had just spent the morning with.

I told my mom about the adventure and the chance encounter later that afternoon.  She then sent me a text message that evening, saying my new friend, Josephine, had been plastered on the news, with a special segment given to her meeting with Jack Hanna.  And then there was a segment about her on the radio Monday morning.  Numerous new outlets had picked up the story.

And as I reflected later - I just kept having this recurring thought:

Don't miss the Josephines of this world.

(And not because she was all over the news or somehow famous in her own little way.  That has nothing to do with it.)

But simply because she had a story to tell.  And it was worth hearing.  And it was worth entering into.

Don't miss the world around you just because there isn't a boyfriend, husband, girlfriend, wife, family member, friend or whomever standing next to you.

Because if you wait for someone to go with you then you miss people like Josephine. You miss the ones who have their own stories to tell and maybe are likewise looking for someone to tell their story to.

Don't miss the ones who have their own adventures to go on.  Join them.  Go and live this life.

Then you will find out you're not so alone after all.

To catch the full interviews and new stories with Josephine, check out 10TV's interview with her, as well as an article the Toledo Blade did on her from 2011, sharing the details on her Honor Flight.
      

On Loan from Middle Earth: Do Not Touch

I've decided there are varying levels of fan-dom when it comes to literary and cinematic works.

Let's use The Lord of the Rings as an example, since it is one of my very favorite books and movies.
 
There are those reluctant LOTR fans, the ones who merely partake in reading or watching the trilogy because a friend or family member has coerced them into watching it.  They find, though, they eventually love Sam and Frodo and Aragorn as much as the next person. It just took them awhile to warm up to them.  (I have frequently been the one coercing the reluctant fan.  Except sometimes it backfires and in my zeal and love for the movies, I overwhelm the person and they just wind up more annoyed with me than delighted with the films.)

There are those momentary fans who are obsessed for a fleeting moment with the trilogy, but quickly pass them by and move on to the next book or movie.  They get caught up in the hype of the movie debut and the midnight showing, but rarely return to it after that.  It's a passing fad for them. (My tolerance is low for such people.)

The dwarf who greeted me at the airport,
with a sign that said,
"On loan from Middle-earth.  Do not
touch."  Noted.  

We also have the purists, the ones who so dearly and deeply love the written and cinematic versions that they own all the film scores and all of the extended editions and all of the books and dare anyone to speak ill of either Peter Jackson or J.R.R. Tolkien.  They harbor a pure love and affection for the magic of it all.

Lastly, there are the fans who I deem just all together weird, the ones who arrive at the midnight showing of the movie dressed in Hobbit costumes, complete with hairy feet.  They have watched every minute of every film extra created about the series and they can even tell you what's contained in the appendix of the trilogy, like the fact that Sam would go on to be mayor of Hobbiton for many years after his return from Mt. Doom.

I fall somewhere between the latter two.

I do own the trilogy and all of the film scores and all of the extended editions and I do get a little cross when people do not love them as much as I do.  I currently have a map of The Lord of the Rings hanging on my apartment wall, one of the few things I have hanging. I have lost track of the number of times I have watched the movies.  I even have extra copies of some of the movies still in plastic wrap in the DVD case, even though I have ones already open.  I bought them with the intent that should my first copy ever go bad, I already have another copy on hand.  (And it was on sale super cheap so don't judge.)  My friend, Jonathan, gave me all of his extended edition collections because he was upgrading his own collection of the trilogy to Blu-ray.  I gladly accepted his gift.  I have read the appendix to the trilogy, but I have never showed up in a Hobbit costume anywhere, nor do I have plans to ever do so.  I'm not that kind of fan.

When I would talk about going to Hobbiton and all the things I loved about the books and the movies, my mother would ever-so gently say, "Do you hear yourself?" Which was a polite way of saying, "You do know this is not normal, right?"

Yes, Mom, I know.  

While I was making plans to go to New Zealand, at the very top of the list was to visit Hobbiton.  I figured there was no way I was going to that corner of the world and NOT going to visit the place  It would be a crime not to.  I didn't care what I was going to have to pay or how far I was going to have to go. I was going to figure out how to get there.

So, I did.

I booked a tour through Bush and Beach, which is a great tour company by the way.  The tour included everything, (lunch, pick-up, drop-off, tickets and souvenir voucher) which made my life very easy.  They picked me up in downtown Auckland at 7 a.m. Saturday morning and we drove two hours south to Matamata, where Hobbiton is located.  I got geeked out long before I even got on the tour bus as there was a large stone-looking dwarf greeting me at the Auckland airport.  I could barely contain myself even then.

Me, in front of Bag End

We thankfully arrived in time to be the first tour of the day, which meant few other people were around and the Shire was empty.  The movie set sits in the middle of a working sheep farm, which makes for a picturesque view of the New Zealand countryside.

We were ushered through the set as a group, with the guide pointing out fun facts along the way.  This is Sam's house.  This fence looks a hundred years old, but it's only six-years old, built specifically for the movie and aged accordingly with some sort of goop that includes yogurt.  This is the bridge that Gandalf drives across in the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring.  And this tree above Bag End is actually fake.  And those vegetables in the garden are real.  And this hobbit-hole is built to Gandalf's scale, not Frodo's scale.  And these hobbit-holes don't appear in the movies.  And there are 44 hobbit-holes total.  And the green dragon carving inside the real Green Dragon tavern took two Maori men two hundred hours to carve.  On and on went the details, with me taking pictures of just about everything and walking around in a slightly stunned state because I couldn't believe I was finally walking around Hobbiton.

Which, unfortunately, caused me to feel like I missed the entire thing.

Panoramic shot of Hobbiton, complete with the party tree and the party field

I was so busy taking pictures of this, that and the other that I missed just being there and enjoying it for what it was, this little slice of my favorite books brought to life.  I'm so glad I went and I really did love seeing it all, but I have a small pocket of regret that I didn't stop long enough to really linger and soak it all up.  I mean, hello, I was at the freaking party tree in the freaking party field and I didn't stop long enough to process that I could have my own 30th birthday party underneath the party tree in the party field, just like Bilbo had his eleventy-first birthday there.  I was in such a foul mood later that day after I got back to Auckland that I had to work hard at getting a grip.  Again, not normal.  

I'm trying to look on the bright side and use that as a justification to go back some day.  I plan on marrying somebody with a good deal of spare change so that he will take me on the 14-day tour for our honeymoon, which will only set him back about $6,000 for each of us (not including airfare).

That will qualify him as super fan and my favorite person.  And if I can convince him to build us a hobbit-hole to live in, we'll be set for life.

              

Always This Sweet Reminder

 Jonathan's sunflowers bloomed yet again this year.  

I am always grateful for the reminder of new mercies, new years, new seasons, new moments.   

And every year, they keep their faces turned to the sun, following it each day as it blazes across the sky.

Just like Jon followed the Son.  

I want the same to be true of my life.

For the Ones Who Have Been Licked By the Flames

Me, attempting to jump at just the right moment

While in New Caledonia, we spent most of our days on campus at the University of New Caledonia.  Our hope was to continue efforts to establish a long-term ministry as there are no Christian organizations there and many students are not familiar with Jesus.  Or, if they are, they have a very vague idea of who he is.  We would walk around, engaging individuals or groups of students, asking them their thoughts on God, what it means to be a Christian, etc.  It was amazing their openness and genuine curiosity to learn more about Jesus. In total, by the end of the trip, 17 students had made decisions to accept Christ. 

The very first day we went to campus, I encountered a girl named Alice.  I was actually having a separate conversation with a girl, Kinsley, at one picnic table, with Alice sitting alone at another picnic table just behind us.  I had noticed Alice walk up and sit down behind us, but I didn't think much more about it. 

As I was talking to Kinsley about Jesus and the Bible, Alice piped up and called across the area, saying, "Yes, this is all true, what you are saying, it's all true."  I turned around to look at her because I wasn't expecting to hear this soft-spoken voice behind me.   She turned around and didn't say anything after that, seeming very shy, like she surprised even herself by speaking up.  We asked her to join us at our table, but she opted not to. 

Kinsley eventually had to leave, leaving just Shannon and Mike, two other members of our team, and I sitting at the table.  We invited Alice again to come sit at our table and this time she elected to join us.

She was a tall, slender girl, bundled up in a few layers, as it was a slightly windy and cool day.  She had a few straggling strands of hair hanging down over her right eye.  When she slid over on the bench next to me, it was then that I noticed her scars.

They covered most of her face, slightly skewing the shape of her eyes. Her hands were scarred also, her fingers just as slender as the rest of her body.

As we began chatting with her, we eventually made it around to her scars.  She shared that as a young child, she had escaped a home fire, but just barely.  Her body had been badly burned and her mother had spent hours over her hospital bed, praying for her, begging God to let her child survive. 

Alice plainly and boldly shared her confidence in God, that there's no way she would have survived that fire apart from Him and His sovereignty.  As she grew older, she continued to rely on that faith she had discovered as a three-year-old. 

I walked away from that conversation humbled and grateful to have crossed paths with this soft-spoken woman.  I was reflecting later and I just kept having this recurring thought run through my mind, "This is who the gospel is for."

Looking out over the student union area

The gospel - the saving grace of Jesus Christ and him crucified - is for the ones who have been scarred and burned by the flames.  It's for the ones who have watched their homes and their lives turn to ash around them.  It's for the ones who have breathed in the smoke of this life and gasped for clean air.  It's for the ones who have been fighting back the fire-breathing dragons of their past and the madness of their present.  It's for the ones whose lungs burn from lack of oxygen, whose legs threaten to give away beneath the heat.  It's for the ones whose hearts have been licked by the flames.

That's who the gospel is for. 

That's who Jesus is for. 

“It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick."  (Matthew 9:12)

The gospel is for the sick and the ones walking around with wounded hearts and scarred minds. 

Alice might have been the bearer of physical scars, but those scars reminded me that we all walk around with our own set of scars.  Most of us just don't wear them on the surface for the world to see.

And as grace would have it - the gospel is for you and all your scars, whether physical or figurative.  It's for your lungs that are screaming for air and your heart that been seared from the heat. It's for the ones who are desperate to find water to douse the flames of this world. 

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;  I have summoned you by name; you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.  For I am the Lord your God."  (Isaiah 43:1-3)

When we walk through the fire.  When.  We will walk through it.  We will have scars.  No one will escape this world without them.

Jesus is for the ones who have been singed and burned and licked by the flames.  He has walked through them himself.  He's not afraid of them. 

And for that I'm grateful. 

I'll Leave the Swimming to the Fish

Snorkeling has never been high on my list of things to do before I die.

I now know why.

While in New Caledonia, we took a free day to go off the coast to snorkel. I was looking forward to the adventure as I hadn't ever done it before. I don't have a great affinity for water or swimming, but I don't find it particularly dreadful either. I thought, "This will be great - no problem. Can't be all that bad."

We set out for the day around 8:00 a.m., with plans to go out to another small island off the mainland, drop anchor and then snorkel.

I shimmied into my wet suit, plopped on my goggles and then listened carefully during the tutorial on how to properly use your snorkel and flippers. The guide so graciously conveyed that swimming in the ocean was easy with your flippers, there's no need to use your arms to swim, just float along and then kick with your legs.

Bernard, our very French snorkeling guide

This is a lie.

As we get closer to jumping in, I'm getting slightly apprehensive as I'm realizing that I may have overestimated my tolerance for water.  I muster up the courage and take the plunge.  The water wasn't too terribly cold, thanks to the wet suit and hood I had on.

We slowly start making our way out from the boat, which is anchored quite a bit from shore.  I occasionally stick my face under the water, catching a glimpse of the world below.  Fish galore and coral everywhere.  I caught a glimpse of a white-tipped reef shark out of the corner of my eye.  The other group mentioned later that they also saw a stingray and a sea turtle.  The ocean was teeming with life and vibrancy.

The water was maybe 30-40 feet deep (but maybe I made that up? I'm not a good judge of distance underwater) and the guide would occasionally dive under, point something out, come back and then explain what he was pointing at.  I was doing okay at this stage, attempting to enjoy the view.

But after awhile, I realize that this whole flipper thing was not working so well and that I was doing the exact opposite of what the guide said. I was doing nothing BUT swimming with my arms.  I was like an anxiety-ridden cat flapping my way around in the deep end of the pool while everybody else was over there looking like Flipper the dolphin, graceful as can be, making it all look like they had lived their whole lives in the water.  Turns out I was not Ariel the mermaid in my former life.  

And the farther we went from the boat, the more stressed I got.  I could feel my body getting tighter and tighter, my breaths getting shorter and shorter.  Every time I would go to stick my head in the water, I would take this huge gulp of air, even though I had a snorkel on allowing me to breath.  I just kept anticipating getting a mouthful of ocean water.  After awhile, I no longer cared what was below the surface.  I just wanted to get back to the boat.  I was slowly losing the mental battle, getting more and more panicked.  I finally waved down our guide, Bernard, a very nice French guy.  I told him I'm going back to the boat and he said with his little French accent, "Yes, sometimes this happens with beginners, they get very exhausted their first time out."  And I was like, "Yeah, yeah, whatever, dude.  I'm over it.  Just get me back to the freaking boat."

So, I tread/paddle/float/drift/attempt to swim my way back to the boat, desperate to get back sooner but finding my legs were worthless and moving even slower because I couldn't use my flippers properly so I was burning energy like crazy.  I was ready to shed them and leave them in the reef for the fish to make a home out of.            

I finally made it back to the boat.  I stripped the flippers, ripped off the goggles and snorkel, heaved myself onto the boat deck, my uncoordinated body nearly collapsing right then and there. Nobody else had made it back yet as they were all still out snorkeling and have a grand ol' time.

This is me, post-snorkeling debacle

Meanwhile, I made a beeline for the bathroom.

And proceed to throw up everything I ate for breakfast that morning, including an amazing chocolate croissant.

I think I had myself so stressed and so anxious that I made myself sick.  The good news was, though, I felt ten times better after that.

The rest of the group finally came back shortly after my stomach had made peace with the rest of my body.  I told them I came back early due to motion sickness and that I just wasn't feeling all that great.  I didn't want to admit that I was an anxiety-ridden, stressed-out, I-don't-care-if-I-ever-snorkel-again-in-my-life-type person.

We pulled up anchor and set off for another location to snorkel.  I stayed on the boat that time and enjoyed the sun, salty air and ocean breezes.

Despite the downside to it all, I'm still glad I did it.  I'll just let National Geographic and the descendants of Jacques Cousteau get all of the underwater photographs next time and leave the swimming in the ocean to the fish, sharks and sea turtles.  I can now successfully cross out "Go snorkeling" off my bucket list.

I just wish I would have remembered that it was never on the bucket list to begin with.   

Redemption and Healing, Gladness and Joy

When I got the phone call from Anne asking me to go on this recent trip, a flood of memories came rushing back.  Memories that didn't hold a lot of joy for me.

As a college student I had been actively involved with one of the student ministries on campus.  I had joined the ministry as a freshman and then quickly joined the student leadership team my sophomore year.  I followed that up with a summer project in San Diego in 2005.  That summer I became good friends with a staff member from the organization, a woman who would go on to be my mentor that summer.  We kept in touch after San Diego and shortly after that, she asked if I would go with her and husband to Russia, where they would be leading a summer project.  I debated for awhile but felt a strong prompting to go with her and eventually said yes.  San Diego had been a pivotal time for me and I watched as Jesus had radically changed who I was, and my mentor had been part of that story.  Russia seemed like the next right thing to do.

I headed overseas the summer of 2006 and that summer would prove to hand me one of the biggest heartaches of my life.  Spiritually speaking, it was just an ugly summer, filled with a lot of disobedience and rebellion.  It wasn't always expressed externally, but I certainly harbored a strong critical spirit, one full of defiance.  I would drag my feet about everything, just not wanting to participate or choosing to find fault with staff or the ministry as a whole.  I was a mess on the inside - always feeling like a failure, always feeling like I didn't measure up, all while knowing I was being so utterly sinful.  It was like somebody had stuck a magnet on my compass and I could suddenly no longer tell which way was north, completely unable to discern things.  I didn't know which way was up and I was slowly drowning in my own unconfessed sins.

My mentor frequently called me out on this and because my own heart was a mess, all that did was add to my resentment.  I felt my bitterness growing each day.  I felt like all I ever got told was to "get a grip" and "snap out of it."  And when I couldn't snap out of it and I couldn't get a grip, the self-condemnation grew and my sadness and anger went deeper.  I was living out Psalm 32:3-4, "When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long.  For day and night your hand was heavy on me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer."  I was wasting away in my own foolishness.

It finally came to a boiling point about two weeks before we were supposed to came back to the States.  I remember sitting in a little coffee shop across the street from the university where we had been staying all summer.  My mentor sat across the table from me, where she proceeded to have a very frank conversation about my recent behavior and uncooperative attitude.  There was a big part of me that was very aware that everything she was saying was true.  I knew I was being a pain.  But there was also this part of me that had absolutely no idea how to get out of it or to change who I was.  I was stuck in my own muck and mire and "snapping out of it" just wasn't cutting it.  As Paul says in Romans 7:14, "I do not understand what I do.  For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do."

The final blow was delivered when she asked if I wanted to go back to the States.  I thought she was joking and said, of course, I'd love to go back to the States.  I was homesick and I was sick of Russia.  But I also knew I couldn't leave.  I knew God had put me there for a reason.  So even if I wanted to leave, I knew I had to stay there.  But then she said, "But, Courtney, what if we made you go home?  We had a staff meeting last night and we considered putting you on a plane back to America."

Was I really in that bad of shape that I was being dismissed and discarded?  It's a conversation I have spent the last 8 years getting over.  It has buried fears so deep inside of me that I find I still react in light of that singular conversation, anticipating that people will write me off or anticipating I will somehow become that girl in Russia all over again.  Because that's what I felt like had happened - I had been an impediment to the team and those around me and the response was simply to remove me.  The very people I thought would have seen past my pain and my obnoxiousness were the very people who simply said, "We've had enough of you."

I really didn't want much to do with the ministry and the organization after that.  I still had to come back my senior year and co-lead the student ministry on my campus, something I look back on with profound regret and sadness because I feel like I failed as a leader and let down a lot of my peers.  My own heart was in shambles and hardly had a right perspective, but here I was expected to lead the very ministry that I felt like had crushed me.  I limped my way through my senior year, just desperate to be done with the role and to move on with life.

So, when Anne (who had also been with me that summer in Russia and was a saving grace as such a patient friend) called to ask if I would go them to New Caledonia this summer, you now know why my heart stuttered a bit at the request.  I wasn't sure I wanted to dredge up thoughts of Russia and I wasn't sure I wanted to partner again with the organization, or any of its branches of ministry.  I was terrified at even the remotest possibility of walking back into another situation like what I had experienced back in 2006.  Or becoming the person I was back then.

And so began the long march toward redemption and healing.  I began praying specifically Isaiah 35:10, "Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away."  Russia had been marked with anything but gladness and joy and I didn't want New Caledonia to be a repeat of that.  I wanted to be overtaken by gladness and joy.  Jonathan Parnell's entry from the Desiring God blog would also prove pivotal in the process - "Seven Details to See in Your Past."  I knew if I went, I needed to be free and clear of the past.  The nails needed to be put in the coffin of Russia, so to speak.

And in the last two weeks in New Caledonia, I watched that happen.  I watched sorrow and sighing be replaced with gladness and joy.  I saw wounds and hurts be replaced with redemption and healing. The process of healing is not always a particularly pleasant one.  But it is always sweetest on the other side of it - and it is always necessary, no matter how painful.

We had a free night one Saturday night about a week or so ago in New Caledonia.  I grabbed my backpack, journal and Bible, found a little shop that sold ham and cheese crepes, and then found a spot on the beach to camp out.

I sat down, sprawled out on one of the picnic tables by the beach as the sun set and wrote that night, "It's hard to realize that what you have been holding onto for so long let go of you a long time ago.  It's time to let the organization off the hook - and to acknowledge that it's a ministry made up of people just like me.  People who are sinful and messy and who don't always get it right."  I realized I had been holding on to Russia and that hurt for far too long, unintentionally and unconsciously.  And it was time to let it go.  To pick up the pieces and move on.

At the end of the trip, during our final debriefing time, we were asked to provide two words that described our trip.  Some people said "life-changing" and "inspirational" and a host of other adjectives.  My two words were simply "redemptive" and "healing."  So much had been redeemed and so much that had once been broken in me had been made whole.

My intent is not to throw this particular ministry or my mentor under the bus and I'm not here to point the finger. Please understand my heart behind this - it is not to offer a critique of the ministry or to paint them in a bad light.  I can only point to myself in this situation.  I'm very aware of my own stupidity and sinfulness and I take full responsibility for that.  But I'm very aware of Jesus and his unending grace that picks me up off the floor and sees to it that I somehow start to breathe again.

"There is not such a pleasant history for you to read in all the world as the history of your own lives, if you would sit down and record from the beginning hitherto what God has been to you, and done for you; what evidences and outbreakings of his mercy, faithfulness, and love there have been in all the conditions you have passed through." - John Flavel 

The outbreaking and evidences of God's mercy, faithfulness and love have been scattered all over my life these last two weeks.  I will be forever grateful for his redemption.  Because that means my past doesn't have to remain a place of sadness, but a place of great hope.  

Two More Countries Added to the Passport

Whew. So much to catch up on!  After being gone for over two weeks, my brain and my body are so out of sorts and my mind has been desperate to get words onto paper/blog.  Generally I prefer the distance between me and technology when I'm traveling, but then I hate having to do so much writing all at once when I get back.  I'd prefer the little chunks to the massive updates.  But, alas, when you're on the other side of the world with limited access, sometimes you have to settle for the marathon of catching up when you return.  I'm sure in the coming weeks I'll unload a hodge-podge of thoughts regarding my recent travels.  

I spent the last two weeks on a little-known island in the South Pacific called New Caledonia with Jesus Film Mission Trips.  I didn't even know this place existed until I was asked to go on this trip.  It's an overseas territory of France, known for its nickel mining, supplying a large percentage of the world's nickel.

Sometime late last summer or early fall, a good friend of mine, Anne, called me up to say that her and her husband were leading a trip to New Caledonia and asked if I would go with them.  The trip would primarily focus on one-on-one evangelism on campus at the University of New Caledonia, using the Jesus Film and other short films they produce as a means of engaging students and sharing the gospel.  The hopes is to continue to build a long-term ministry and eventually provide long-term staff who will lead and develop Christ-followers on campus.  It's a ministry that is in its infancy, so there was a lot of pioneering to do in order to pave the way for what will hopefully come in the near future.

And I figured since I would be on that side of the world anyway, flying in and out of Auckland, New Zealand, I might as well take advantage of that fact and spend some extra time hanging out in New Zealand.  So, I spent two extra days at the end of the trip exploring Auckland, visiting Hobbiton (trust me - there will be a post reserved for Hobbiton alone), and going horseback riding on the beach.

All in all, this particular trip holds a lot of memories and a lot of stories.  I think each of my overseas adventures has been marked by a specific theme and verse from the Bible.  This trip was about redemption and healing - and making Jesus known among the nations.  Isaiah 12:4-5 best articulates what I had been praying for on this trip:

"Give praise to the LORD, proclaim his name; make known among the nations what he has done, and proclaim that his name is exalted.  Sing to the LORD, for he has done glorious things; let this be known to all the world." 

I wanted to proclaim Jesus and make him known among the nations - not only what he has done in my life, but what he is doing in New Caledonia also.  He has truly done glorious things and I wanted to make this known to all the world.  Or at least this corner of the world.   

Where I Go, They Go

Packing for overseas trips has become a bit of a game for me.  I'm determined to someday go overseas and pack only a book bag.  I thought I could pull it off on this trip and I was giving it a valiant effort.  I finally had to succumb, however, and accept the fact that it was just not meant to be.  My suitcase that I'm checking still only weighs 26 pounds.  Pack light or stay home is my motto! (Thank you, Kristen P. for articulating that for me the last time I packed to go overseas.)  I'll have one small suitcase to check, a book bag to carry-on and a small purse - all totaling 48 pounds. I love efficient packing. I think my goal is always to take less and less on each successive trip I take.  Maybe one of these days I'll achieve my own personal gold standard of only carrying on a book bag and checking no luggage.    

This trip is going to be a bit of a departure from my last few trips.  I'm heading out with the Jesus Film Project to a little French island off the coast of Australia called New Caledonia for two weeks and then spending a couple of extra days in New Zealand before I head back home.  There are a whole host of thoughts that have gone into deciding to go on this trip, but I'll unpack those on another day.

You can bet, though, in those 48 pounds of luggage I'm carting around there is most certainly a box of Cheez-Its.  This should not surprise you.

      

Where I go, they go.  They went with me to Kenya and they went with me to Guatemala.  They will now go with me to New Caledonia and New Zealand.  What would I do without you, Cheez-Its?    

Back in the Day When I Learned How to Play the Accordion

Me, back in the day, attempting to learn how to play
the accordion.  It didn't turn out so well. 

Turns out that learning to play the accordion in the fourth grade was a lost cause for me.  It was like trying to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time. I couldn't play the keyboard, press the buttons AND push the billows in and out ALL at the same time.  Besides, the thing weighed about as much as I did so I always felt like I was going to pitch forward, face-first and wind up with accordion keys stuck between my ribs.

But man, Mr. DJ - did he know how to play that accordion.  He played that thing like he was trying to resurrect somebody from the dead.  And I loved it.  I loved watching him play it, doing something he so clearly relished.

Mr. DJ was my fourth grade teacher.  I also happened to have his wife, Mrs. DJ, for third grade.  Their real last name is DesJardins, but we always just called them Mr. and Mrs. DJ.  They were some of my very favorite teachers I ever had in all my years of school, college and grad school included.  It will be 20 years this fall since I first set foot in his classroom.  I remember I pitched a fit when I found out I was slated to have a different teacher for fourth grade.  My older brother had had Mr. DJ for fourth grade also, and I just remember seeing how much fun he had and I wanted to be a part of that.  I have no idea what strings my mom pulled, but she somehow managed to get things switched and I got my wish. (Bless you, Mom.)

Mr. DJ passed away this past Saturday.  And as I've been flipping through old scrapbooks from fourth grade, I can't tell you a single thing I learned from a textbook that year I had him as a teacher. I don't recall any of our grammar lessons and I don't recall any lessons on division or fractions.  I can't recall a single lesson about science or weather or biology.  I couldn't tell you anything about Ohio history.  I can't even remember if we had textbooks.  I have no conscious memory of any of those things.

One of the many postcards I still have from our years
of corresponding back and forth.  We kept it up for over a decade.
And I still have every single one of them.

But I'll never forget Mr. DJ.  Because you don't forget the teacher who instilled in you a deep love of learning.  The teacher who taught you wooden shoe dances and the jitterbug.  The teacher who let you bake all the toaster strudels (and soft pretzels and cookies and biscuits) you wanted. The teacher who lined his classroom walls with license plates from every state because he loved to travel.  The teacher who kept a "booger bell," and rang it anytime a student was caught picking his nose. (I can't believe I forgot that one until somebody mentioned it to me at calling hours!)  The teacher who celebrated everything with a gold "Excellent" stamp on your paper. The teacher who introduced you to molasses syrup. The teacher who loved Route 66.  The teacher who let you make gingerbread houses at Christmas and played Bing Crosby's "Mele Kalikimaka" in the background.  The teacher who played old radio broadcasts of "The Shadow" with a group of students listening enraptured. The teacher who whacked his ruler on his desk if you weren't paying attention when he was talking.  The teacher who introduced you and your brother to the word "flatulence." (I have no idea why, but Mr. DJ liked that word.) The teacher who wore a sombrero and danced around the classroom, playing the accordion, with a string of kids bee-bopping around behind him.  The teacher who taught you how to play the harmonica and thought everything you played sounded just fine.  The teacher who taught you all the bones of the body, thanks to a life-size skeleton named Maud (I didn't recall the name of the skeleton, but my brother brought it to mind).  The teacher who sent you postcards for decades from his many travels, written in his trademark all-caps handwriting.  The teacher who passed out Tootsie rolls to any kid who found whatever city he called out during much-loved "map races" or "dictionary races".  The teacher who took pictures of nearly every piece of artwork his students created.  You don't forget a teacher like that.

I loved having him for a teacher.  I always remember his classroom being so engaging. I don't remember ever being bored.  Mr. DJ was the kind of teacher that made you want to go to school every day.  I couldn't wait to see what he had waiting for us, what project we were going to work on next, what song we would learn next.  There was always something to be doing in his classroom.  We loved him all the more because we didn't realize that what we were doing was called learning.

So, here's to the teachers like Mr. DJ who do more than just teach.  Here's to the teachers who compel a group of young kids to travel and see the world.  Here's to the teachers who keep Wurlitzer jukeboxes in their classrooms and play music while their students are passing the time baking cookies in a tiny toaster oven.  Here's to the teachers who think life lessons are more important than grammar lessons.  Here's to the teachers who celebrate the terrible harmonica players along with the harmonica-playing prodigies.  Here's the teachers who say convention and conformity are over-rated.

Here's to you, Mr. DJ, one of the best teachers I have ever had.  When I stand underneath the arch to the Santa Monica Pier next week, the official end of your much-loved Route 66, I'll think of you.  And I'll be sure to send a postcard.

I Can Feel It Coming

There are just some seasons of life when you realize that if your head weren't attached to your body, you would surely walk off without it.  Seasons when it seems everything is converging at once and you're just hoping to somehow merely survive it with all your limbs intact.

I had a season like that back in grad school.  I was working on my MBA, taking classes at night.  I had two part-time jobs at that point, one for a local eye doctor and the other working for the university in the Student Life office.  My grandfather had recently died and I was just generally feeling swamped by life.  I became acutely aware of how scattered my brain and my life had become when I sat down one day and took stock of my craziness.

I had developed the habit of leaving my apartment/car keys.  In the door.  Overnight.  I would come home, unlock the door and just simply forget to take them back out.  I would wake up the next morning and be ready to head out the door and have no idea where my keys disappeared to.  I knew I was in trouble when this became an established norm and I was no longer surprised at myself for leaving my keys in the door overnight.  I think I came to expect it.  As soon as I couldn't find my keys, I knew right where they would be.  Thankfully I lived in a sleepy little college town, with a perpetually grumpy 90-something-year-old man and a retired professor as my neighbors.  

And then there was the time I was making my grocery list.  I was busy gabbing on the phone at the same time, attempting to multi-task.  When I got off the phone and looked down at my list, I realized I had written "shaving screams," instead of just "shaving cream."

The one that trumped them all, though, was when I was in my office one day at school.  I was packing up for the day, getting ready to leave and I couldn't find my phone.  I am pulling out drawers, rummaging through stacks of paper, looking underneath books.  Can't find it. I check and double-check my purse.  I check my pockets.  I check my coat.  I check the seat cushions.  Still can't find it.  I check the trashcan.  I check the floor.  I check the cabinets.  Zilch.  Where on earth could that thing have gone?

And then it dawns on me.

I.am.on.it, talking to my brother.

Heaven help me.

All of these memories came back to haunt the other day as I began realizing that I am presently following that same pattern here recently, which is giving me some serious cause for concern.

Exhibit A: I met a friend the other day for lunch and afterward I really just had one mission - go to Walmart and pick up supplies for the upcoming trip.  One stop, that's all I needed to do.  I kept telling myself, "Don't forget to turn off on this road to go to Walmart, don't forget to turn off on this road to go to Walmart, don't forget to turn off on this road to to got Walmart."  I was about a mile past the turnoff when it occurred to me that I had missed it all together.  I completely lost all motivation to turnaround and go back so I just went home.

Exhibit B:  I was getting ready for work the other morning, jumped in the shower, got out, was trying to figure out what to wear for the day and started doing my hair and makeup.  As I'm blow drying my hair, I'm thinking, "Ugh - my hair just looks so gross today, like it's still really greasy."  And then as I started thinking, I began to wonder, "Ehhhh - I'm not even sure I shampooed it this morning??"   I honestly couldn't remember - if  I did, I must not have washed out all of the shampoo.  I eventually came to the conclusion that I just didn't bother to shampoo it at all.

I can feel it coming.  These are the early warning signs of the impending train wreck that will be my brain over the next few months, between going overseas, starting a new position at my office, moving into a new apartment and host of other things.  If you see anybody walking around with either a glazed or slightly panicked look, it's probably me.    

The One View I'll Never Get Over

I don't know that there's ever a moment in my life when I am not reflecting on, thinking about, or over-thinking something.  It's both a blessing and a curse.  And maybe because my 30th birthday is approaching in a few months and a variety of things are all converging at once.  I was offered a different position at work so I am changing jobs.  With no longer having the pony at home, I am moving out.  I was asked by a dear friend to head overseas on a trip that her and her husband are leading with the Jesus Film Project, so I'm hopping on a plane in a month and falling off the grid for a few weeks.  It's all good things, but it's a lot to wrap my brain around sometimes.

As I've been sorting through schedules and changes and reflecting on where all I've been in the last 29 years, I've taken stock of a few things.

In the past 29 years, I have gaped at the glaciers in Alaska and thought I had found a bit of heaven on earth.  

I have walked across the bricks of Red Square in Moscow and stared up at St. Basil's Cathedral, a little stunned when it dawned on me, "This is where Stalin walked."  

I have stood on the shores of the Black Sea at sunset and I have hiked up the Caucasus Mountains to see mountain men tending to the wild horses that lived on its slopes.  

I have crossed through rivers so bitter cold in those same mountains that it nearly stole the air right out of my lungs.  

I have had my heart stop beating as I caught a glimpse of the sunset in the vast expanse of the Masai Mara and wondered how I was ever going to leave that place with my heart still intact.  

I have spent a night sleeping on the streets of Los Angeles, all in the name of getting a ticket to the Price is Right.   

I have criss-crossed my way down Krasnaya Street in Krasnodar, eating ice cream and listening to a thousand voices speaking a language I didn't understand.

I have walked the sandy beaches of San Diego, staring out at the endless horizon, hearing the waves crash the shore, and wondered if God really did exist.

I have screamed bloody murder at the rodent hiding in the shadows in Chisec and I have had a rash from the caterpillars in Nairobi.  

I have hiked up the mountains of western North Carolina and I have stood at the edge of her waterfalls.

I have fallen in love with the seemingly endless miles of whiteboard fences and rolling hills of the Kentucky Bluegrass, dreaming of someday living there.

I have seen the humpback whales feeding in the inlets of Juneau and I have seen the sun still setting at 10 o'clock at night in Anchorage.  

I have played games with children in orphanages in Tijuana, Mexico, and I have bartered for jewelry on its city streets in a language I could barely speak.  

I have run my fingers along portions of the Berlin Wall in a tiny town in central Missouri named Fulton, and I have gotten lost in a corn maze just down the road.  

I have stood in Times Square, with its million flashing lights and billboards, and I have gazed out over Central Park from the top of the Rockefeller building.

I have gone horseback riding through the Yukon and I have gone horseback riding through the mountains of Tennessee.  I have fallen off a few horses in Ohio and I have chased after one across the track of the famous Red Mile in Lexington.

I have been to the top of the St. Louis Arch, overlooking the mighty Mississippi and I have been to the top of the Washington Monument, overlooking the lazy Potomac.

I have driven across thousands of miles of open highway in America, passing through city after city, taking note of street names and town names and creek names like Nameless Creek, found somewhere along the way in Indiana (or maybe Illinois?).  

I have been through airports from Chicago to Rome to Dallas to Dubai to Addis Ababa to Guatemala City, and perhaps silently cursed only at the airport in Detroit.

I have wept at the poverty in the slums of Kenya and I have wept over the disabled children forgotten in a tiny orphanage in Krasnodar and I have wept over empty bellies of little ones in remote parts of Central America.

I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, listening to it's thundering silence and I have stood at the edge of Niagara Falls, listening to its dull roar as gallons upon gallons of water tumble over its edge.

I have blitzed my way through cities like Moscow, New York, and Washington D.C. via the frenzied metro and subway systems, just hoping to make it out with all my limbs still intact.

I have sweat my weight in the hot sun in a tiny village called Mount Hermon and I have shivered my way through nights spent sleeping on straw mattresses in the forgotten parts of Russia.      

And hopefully in a month I can say I have walked on the shores of a tiny French island off the coast of Australia, and say I have hiked my way through parts of New Zealand, all in the name of setting foot in Hobbiton.  

They have all been spectacular adventures.  Every single one of them.  And I wouldn't trade them for anything. God's been gracious beyond measure and has offered me opportunity after opportunity to revel in Him and his goodness.  

But the one view I'll never get tired of - the one view I am most eager to return to is a field in my backyard in Smalltown, USA.  

It's the same view I have seen a thousand times over. 

And it's the one view I'll never get over.  Home.

My friend, Alex, and I took this photo in the fall of 2007.  The photo is exactly as we saw it that
 night, no touch-ups, no alterations.  God's stunning brilliance on display.
Right at the end of my driveway. It is hands-down one of my very favorite photographs.

What It's Like to Be Sober

I sat quietly in the back of the court room, watching as each woman stood up one by one and answered the question, "How many days sober?"  For one woman it was a mere 11 days.  For another it was 4 years and so many days.  I watched as one woman shared her story - how she had been adopted just days after being born, how her biological father had murdered her mother by slashing her pregnant body in half.  I watched as one woman struggled to share the lyrics to a song she had written in her art therapy program, her means of releasing so much pain.  I listened to their stories and I listened to their fears.  I heard the patience in the judge's voice as he gently prodded each woman, drawing them out, inquiring about their progress and their setbacks.

And my heart couldn't decide whether to weep over their brokenness or rejoice in their slow, long march to restoration.

I had ventured into CATCH Court (Changing Actions to Change Habits) several weeks ago in order to catch a glimpse of this "restorative justice" in progress.  I first contacted Doma back in February to inquire about volunteering, and then quickly followed up by attending one of their volunteer trainings and then another training focusing specifically on mentoring one of these women.  The organization focuses on empowering women who have been victims of sex trafficking, primarily through the means of CATCH Court, which is a specialty docket court here in Columbus.  After I had attended the mentoring training, a Doma staff member suggested I attend CATCH Court, just to get a feel for the scope of what these women go through and how the process actually works.

These women typically voluntarily opt-in to CATCH, oftentimes in lieu of jail time.  By being a part of CATCH, these women agree to a series of guidelines, including attending court every Thursday and adhering to the boundaries set by their case workers, counselors, sponsors and the judge, Judge Paul Herbert.

I was amazed and humbled and awed by what I witnessed in that court room.  After I left, and as I got in my car to drive down the highway, hot tears sprang to my eyes because I couldn't wrap my brain around what I had just witnessed.  I couldn't wrap my brain around the addictions and the depravity and the abuse.  And I couldn't wrap my brain around the grace and the mercy and the unfailing love of a God I do not fully understand.

When I was interviewing for a possible mentoring position with Doma, I had the opportunity to speak with one of the women, Sandy, who had recently graduated from CATCH.  I was feeling so many insecurities about the possibility of mentoring, wondering what on earth I would have to offer these women.  I have no idea what it's like to walk in their shoes - to battle back additions every moment of every day - to feel so desperate to survive that you'll do anything, including selling your own body to the next man who walks by.  I have no idea how to relate and during the interview I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the prospect of entering into the lives of these women, feeling ill-equipped and inadequate for the task.

As I shared those fears with Sandy, she looked at me, pausing to gather her thoughts, and then she said one of the most profound things I have ever heard in my life:

"You don't need to know what it's like to have an addiction.  Because I want to know what it's like to be sober.  And you know how to do that." 

It was like somebody had hit me with a 2x4. You don't need to know what it's like to have an addiction because I want to know what it's like to be sober.  All of my insecurities dealt with in one concise and gentle nudge.  I'm sure I continued to gape at her, amazed at the wisdom pouring out of her mouth.  And I'm sure it was a simple way of her telling me to get over myself.  I frequently need that reminder as well.

I don't know where this adventure leads from here.  I'm not sure the stories that will come my way as I enter into the lives of these women.  But I imagine I will learn far more from them than I will ever be able to teach them.