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.