Jeremiah 10:23 says, "I know, O LORD, that a man's life is not his own; it is not for man to direct his steps."
My life isn't mine. God called me to this move (here's that story). So here I am.
Saturday morning, everything went well. I had a bunch of help, and the whole packing ordeal was over in a little over an hour. I walked down the 3 flights of stairs, 21 steps, crossed the landing with the mailboxes, 2 more steps down, a sidewalk, then 2 more steps up, and a step off the curb to my car and left good ole 15F forever. Arrived at my temporary home in Lancaster and once again accomplished the unpacking quickly and with help. Seven steps up to the porch, a step in the house, 16 steps to the first landing, and 15 more up to my room. It's nice. A little bit hot up there since there's no air conditioning on the third floor, but I like it.
I'm living with Ashley and George and their 3 children until I can make some money and live on my own in the ghetto. It's a big dream. Doesn't sound like it, maybe, and shouldn't require too much mula, but it's a big step. And it's a big step to be living here. Ashley and I mainly know each other only from lots and lots of text messages. She likes golden oreos, and I like chocolate. She loves corn dogs, and I can't stand them. But we both go barefoot all the time. She adds -o to her words and I add -ness to mine. And I've visited a handful of times. I just hope we know one another well enough to make this live-in thing work! It's been good so far - at least from my point of view.
I still wonder if I'm going home. If this is only a visit. But it isn't. It's real. This is home now. I visited my first church up here. I don't know. Might go back, but I'll probably try a couple others first. I'm hoping to try 2 or 3 more next weekend - one on Saturday night and an early and late service on Sunday morning. Trying to find "home" as quickly as possible!
Part of the story of my moving up here is the way I was hired as a nanny so quickly. I was excited about the part-time job which would make me a little bit of money while I found another part-time job to pair with it. Today, those plans crashed to the sidewalk as I walked through the city, talking on the phone with my soon-to-be boss. She got laid off at work and no longer needed me. Goodbye job. Goodbye paycheck. Goodbye why moving up here was even possible. But here I am anyway. I continued to walk around the city with my eyes open for ideas of full-time jobs now, instead of just part-time. I walked and walked. I can't parallel park that well so walking is my better bet, but after a couple of hours walking around the city in my jeans and my hair down in case I stopped in some salons in 92degrees I was hot and sweating. I got off the phone with my suppose-to-be boss, and walked in a coffee shop for a cool strawberry drink.
I walked by the library. A library. Perfect. Maybe my day was about to get a little better. I went inside. I roamed all three floors and found a book I wanted to check out. When I asked at the counter for a library card, the woman told me I couldn't get one or check out the book since my driver's license still had my maryland address. Tears flooded my eyes. I turned and walked outside, sat down on the steps on the side of the building, and cried. I couldn't help myself. It was turning into a very bad day. I hadn't had much sleep since the temperatures were a bit high in my room, then I got laid off before I even started work, and now I can't even borrow a book from the library.
I calmed myself down, and headed to a cafe Ashley had told me about to apply for a job. I couldn't find it. I gave up and walked back to my poorly paralleled parked car. I found my way around the one-way streets, stopped at the grocery store, and made it back to my new home sweet home. Applied for a couple more nanny jobs, and now I'm just waiting for someone to call me back, or my next job search outting - whichever comes first.
I know, O LORD, that a man's life is not his own; it is not for man to direct his steps.
And the saga continues . . . .
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beautiful
There is one hundred ten billion dollars in the diet and beauty industry. Billion. One hundred ten billion. Why? Because we'll buy it. We'll buy beautiful.
In my culture, "Beautiful" means "Sexy," and if I'm not "Sexy" than I must not be "Beautiful." "Sexy" is whatever Hollywood defines it as . . . on magazine covers, bill boards, tv commercials, and movies.
I don't look like the magazine covers. Chances are, you don't either.
Webster's Dictionary defines beauty as, "(1) The quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit; loveliness (2) A beautiful person or thing; especially a beautiful woman (3) A particularly graceful, ornamental, or excellent quality."
I worked in the beauty industry as a cosmetologist. In school, I was taught what "beautiful" is suppose to look like. The only beautiful face shape is the oval. If you don't have an oval face, you're not pretty. I was taught how to create illusions to make other face shapes appear oval in order to finally be beautiful.
It's buried deep in the heart of all women. The desire to be beautiful; to be desirable.
Undoubtedly, God made me beautiful when His hands shaped me. Genesis 1:27 says, "So God created man[kind] in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them." I'm made in His image. "For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well." (Psalm 139:13-14) Made wonderful. Made in His image.
But I still get sucked in to this culture's definition of beauty. Or maybe it's not really beauty, but just a facade of truly beautiful.
If only it weren't so hard to stop thinking about my outward appearance, to stop being concerned with what other people will think of me, and just be me. Be the way God made me. Be beautiful.
Proverbs says, "Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised."
I've met those women. Women who aren't always drop dead gorgeous, and who haven't made the magazine covers, but who have a beauty that doesn't fade away. They shine with something more, something deeper . . . something truly beautiful. And it's not something they bought at the drug store.
"Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight. For this is the way the holy women of the past who put their hope in God used to make themselves beautiful." (1 Peter 3:3-5a)
A gentle and quiet spirit. How modest. How feminine. How beautiful.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Story Begins
The story began back around April when I had a week of in-my-face God trying to get my attention. I had a conversation with a girl on facebook about pole dancing and prostitutes; for some reason the same topic came up at work; I watched "Price of Pleasure" because my friend, Chrissy, recommended it (it's a documentary about porn); then, God spoke in a voice only audible to my heart, but it was crystal clear.
I sat through the service in church that Sunday, and I couldn't tell you what the message was about, but at the end the pastor told a story about a Christian business guy on a business trip. I remember wondering what the story had to do with the rest of the message, but whatever the case it had a lot to do with what God had to say to me.
Here's my version of the story (it's something along these lines): He can't sleep and he hears some noise in the pub below him. He walks in and orders a coffee, and asks the man behind the counter what all the commotion is. "Oh, it's the prostitutes getting off work. Happens like clockwork every night at this time." He overhears one of them, a girl called Agnus, mention that it is her birthday the following day, but that no one ever celebrates it with her. After she leaves, he suggests that they throw her a birthday party the following night. So the next night there are decorations, and a huge birthday cake. When Agnus walks in they sing happy birthday to her and throw her a party. She asks if she can take the cake to show her friends. She runs out the door, telling them not to move and that she will be right back. In the awkward moments that follow, the business man suggests that they all pray for Agnus, and so they do. "Hey," says the man behind the counter, "I didn't know you were a Christian. What kind of church do you go to?" "I guess the kind of church that throws parties in the middle of the night for a prostitute," he answers. "That kind of church doesn't exist," says the man behind the counter, "and if it did, I would go to it." The story pierced my heart. As I sat there at the end of the service with a piece of bread and a cup of juice, I asked God to speak to my heart. And He did. "Rescue these captives, Julie. They're so precious to Me. Go to the ghetto."
Prostitutes? I've known I've been called to young girls since I was in high school myself. I knew that was my ministry. It IS my ministry. And I even understand how 'young girls' and 'prostitutes' fit together, but . . . .
I didn't forget what God said, but I knew He was going to have to show me more.
About a month later, I visited my dear friend, Ashley, in Lancaster. On my way up, I drove through what I term "the ghetto." And I fell in love. It was cute, the people were outside together experiencing community and investing in one another. I thought about all the sinful life cycles that lived there, and all the hurting girls, and I knew God was tugging on my heart. As I sat on their couch, we talked about me moving up there when I got back from camp, and living with them for awhile, but it seemed almost a joke – something that wouldn't ever really happen. On the way home, I passed a church that I looked up later online that has ghetto ministries happening weekly. It may seem clear, but it wasn't until later that I started putting things together. Prostitutes, the ghetto, and now provision to move into the ghetto by having an in-between place to live.
A couple weeks later, I was in D.C. Although we didn't drive through the ghetto, it was sketchy enough to count for something close! And again, I realized how much my heart yearned for a place much like it: poor, yes, but with so much need to see Christ in their next door neighbor. I had been reading through Luke, and each time Jesus sat down with the poor, the 'sinful', and the unexpected, it was confirmed again.
That's who I'm called to be. The next door neighbor who, by inviting them over for dinner or sitting out on the front steps with them, will really just be doing what Jesus did.
But that was before I left for camp. There was still a distance between those thoughts and the real thing.
Now, the real thing is in a few weeks. Looking for a job is real now. I began looking for jobs near the ghetto in D.C., Baltimore, and Lancaster. I have come across a part-time job in Lancaster, and as I train in the next few weeks that's going to be real too. Decisions are not only real, they also have to be made quickly now. No more time to sit and think about it. The real thing is saying goodbye to my family, friends, church, Bible study groups, and my girls' small group. And, if the ghetto is getting more and more real, so is the prospect of ministry with prostitutes. Don't know how it's going to play out, but I know that what I heard that Sunday morning was real. Maybe it will be a girl next door. Or maybe it will be much bigger than that.
It's almost too much to process. All the things that need to be done overwhelm me: job search, calling BGE, taking care of address switches, seeing friends I haven't seen all summer and telling them goodbye again . . . . All the emotions overwhelm me too: excitement, fear, nervousness, sadness, anticipation . . . .
I remembered the story from Genesis 12 when Abram leaves when God tells him to go. He doesn't wait around. He trusts. Until recently, I wasn't really trusting God to provide everything I needed in order to obey. But as I lied in bed one night, my heart swarming with thoughts and feelings, God and I talked. And I felt peace. He's taken care of little things: a place to live for awhile, a place to store my things until I have a few paychecks and can find a happy ghetto (or near the ghetto) apartment. And He'll take care of the big things too: a second job, a church, friends, . . . . Finally, this heart of mine sat still long enough for me to trust. Long enough for me to surrender. Long enough to hear that voice in my heart call me to the ghetto, to girls, to prostitutes, and have peace in it.
That's my story. And it's probably just the beginning . . . .
I sat through the service in church that Sunday, and I couldn't tell you what the message was about, but at the end the pastor told a story about a Christian business guy on a business trip. I remember wondering what the story had to do with the rest of the message, but whatever the case it had a lot to do with what God had to say to me.
Here's my version of the story (it's something along these lines): He can't sleep and he hears some noise in the pub below him. He walks in and orders a coffee, and asks the man behind the counter what all the commotion is. "Oh, it's the prostitutes getting off work. Happens like clockwork every night at this time." He overhears one of them, a girl called Agnus, mention that it is her birthday the following day, but that no one ever celebrates it with her. After she leaves, he suggests that they throw her a birthday party the following night. So the next night there are decorations, and a huge birthday cake. When Agnus walks in they sing happy birthday to her and throw her a party. She asks if she can take the cake to show her friends. She runs out the door, telling them not to move and that she will be right back. In the awkward moments that follow, the business man suggests that they all pray for Agnus, and so they do. "Hey," says the man behind the counter, "I didn't know you were a Christian. What kind of church do you go to?" "I guess the kind of church that throws parties in the middle of the night for a prostitute," he answers. "That kind of church doesn't exist," says the man behind the counter, "and if it did, I would go to it." The story pierced my heart. As I sat there at the end of the service with a piece of bread and a cup of juice, I asked God to speak to my heart. And He did. "Rescue these captives, Julie. They're so precious to Me. Go to the ghetto."
Prostitutes? I've known I've been called to young girls since I was in high school myself. I knew that was my ministry. It IS my ministry. And I even understand how 'young girls' and 'prostitutes' fit together, but . . . .
I didn't forget what God said, but I knew He was going to have to show me more.
About a month later, I visited my dear friend, Ashley, in Lancaster. On my way up, I drove through what I term "the ghetto." And I fell in love. It was cute, the people were outside together experiencing community and investing in one another. I thought about all the sinful life cycles that lived there, and all the hurting girls, and I knew God was tugging on my heart. As I sat on their couch, we talked about me moving up there when I got back from camp, and living with them for awhile, but it seemed almost a joke – something that wouldn't ever really happen. On the way home, I passed a church that I looked up later online that has ghetto ministries happening weekly. It may seem clear, but it wasn't until later that I started putting things together. Prostitutes, the ghetto, and now provision to move into the ghetto by having an in-between place to live.
A couple weeks later, I was in D.C. Although we didn't drive through the ghetto, it was sketchy enough to count for something close! And again, I realized how much my heart yearned for a place much like it: poor, yes, but with so much need to see Christ in their next door neighbor. I had been reading through Luke, and each time Jesus sat down with the poor, the 'sinful', and the unexpected, it was confirmed again.
That's who I'm called to be. The next door neighbor who, by inviting them over for dinner or sitting out on the front steps with them, will really just be doing what Jesus did.
But that was before I left for camp. There was still a distance between those thoughts and the real thing.
Now, the real thing is in a few weeks. Looking for a job is real now. I began looking for jobs near the ghetto in D.C., Baltimore, and Lancaster. I have come across a part-time job in Lancaster, and as I train in the next few weeks that's going to be real too. Decisions are not only real, they also have to be made quickly now. No more time to sit and think about it. The real thing is saying goodbye to my family, friends, church, Bible study groups, and my girls' small group. And, if the ghetto is getting more and more real, so is the prospect of ministry with prostitutes. Don't know how it's going to play out, but I know that what I heard that Sunday morning was real. Maybe it will be a girl next door. Or maybe it will be much bigger than that.
It's almost too much to process. All the things that need to be done overwhelm me: job search, calling BGE, taking care of address switches, seeing friends I haven't seen all summer and telling them goodbye again . . . . All the emotions overwhelm me too: excitement, fear, nervousness, sadness, anticipation . . . .
I remembered the story from Genesis 12 when Abram leaves when God tells him to go. He doesn't wait around. He trusts. Until recently, I wasn't really trusting God to provide everything I needed in order to obey. But as I lied in bed one night, my heart swarming with thoughts and feelings, God and I talked. And I felt peace. He's taken care of little things: a place to live for awhile, a place to store my things until I have a few paychecks and can find a happy ghetto (or near the ghetto) apartment. And He'll take care of the big things too: a second job, a church, friends, . . . . Finally, this heart of mine sat still long enough for me to trust. Long enough for me to surrender. Long enough to hear that voice in my heart call me to the ghetto, to girls, to prostitutes, and have peace in it.
That's my story. And it's probably just the beginning . . . .
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Things I Learned At Camp
I left camp on Saturday morning. Looking back, I learned a few things. I'm still learning them.
I learned that God's strength can permeate every area of my life. Above my bed I hung the words from Psalm 44, "It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them." I used to have it hanging over my desk at Love180. As I woke, I read that verse. I had quoted it many times, but it had never been so true in my life until this summer.
Physically, I was weak. I needed God's strength. I had to have it, or I wasn't going to make it through the day. I had migraines, headaches, dizziness; I was hot, dehydrated, drained. I went to bed at 11:15pm and got up at 6:30am for eight weeks straight. I was outside all day being active in the hot sun. My heart skipped beats. God was my strength. He was my shade at my right hand (Ps. 121). He calmed my heartbeat. He strengthened me physically.
Emotionally, I was weak. I dealt with issues from campers. I was drained from the intensity of camp week after week. God gave me strength. I didn't just get by; somehow I had the energy every day to invest in girls' hearts.
Spiritually, I was weak. I got a two hour break in twenty-four in which to shower, call home, and spend time with Jesus (and often lie down for a nap for a couple minutes). It wasn't enough. My time in the Word was often rushed. I didn't get a chance to soak it in, or sit and process. God was my strength. His Spirit spoke to my heart. He drew me close.
I learned to be thankful. The heat, the tiredness, the inopportune tornado warnings, the busyness, the lack of sleep: it all got to me, and I was ungrateful. I complained about everything if campers weren't within earshot. But thanks to my dear friend, Ashley, who called me out on it, I started being grateful. I started thanking God for every breeze that cut through the scorching, thick air. I thanked Him for the raindrops that cooled my skin. I thanked Him for moments in air conditioning while we watched skits. I thanked Him for the privilege of leading these circles of girls. I thanked Him for my air conditioned cabin every night.
I learned again joy in salvation. God is faithful; going into camp I was asking that my joy of salvation be refreshed. I've grown up in a Christian home, and I gave my life to Christ when I was 6 so sometimes the gospel can start to get "old" in a way. God restored my joy as I had the honor of praying with girls to be saved at camp and as I was reminded through a book I had borrowed about the depth of being born again (Finally Alive by John Piper). Each Wednesday was salvation day at camp. The gospel story never bored me. Wednesdays were my favorite day. It remained fresh.
. . . and I'm still learning.
Thank You, God, for my time at camp and for being faithful in speaking to my heart and teaching me.
I learned that God's strength can permeate every area of my life. Above my bed I hung the words from Psalm 44, "It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them." I used to have it hanging over my desk at Love180. As I woke, I read that verse. I had quoted it many times, but it had never been so true in my life until this summer.
Physically, I was weak. I needed God's strength. I had to have it, or I wasn't going to make it through the day. I had migraines, headaches, dizziness; I was hot, dehydrated, drained. I went to bed at 11:15pm and got up at 6:30am for eight weeks straight. I was outside all day being active in the hot sun. My heart skipped beats. God was my strength. He was my shade at my right hand (Ps. 121). He calmed my heartbeat. He strengthened me physically.
Emotionally, I was weak. I dealt with issues from campers. I was drained from the intensity of camp week after week. God gave me strength. I didn't just get by; somehow I had the energy every day to invest in girls' hearts.
Spiritually, I was weak. I got a two hour break in twenty-four in which to shower, call home, and spend time with Jesus (and often lie down for a nap for a couple minutes). It wasn't enough. My time in the Word was often rushed. I didn't get a chance to soak it in, or sit and process. God was my strength. His Spirit spoke to my heart. He drew me close.
I learned to be thankful. The heat, the tiredness, the inopportune tornado warnings, the busyness, the lack of sleep: it all got to me, and I was ungrateful. I complained about everything if campers weren't within earshot. But thanks to my dear friend, Ashley, who called me out on it, I started being grateful. I started thanking God for every breeze that cut through the scorching, thick air. I thanked Him for the raindrops that cooled my skin. I thanked Him for moments in air conditioning while we watched skits. I thanked Him for the privilege of leading these circles of girls. I thanked Him for my air conditioned cabin every night.
I learned again joy in salvation. God is faithful; going into camp I was asking that my joy of salvation be refreshed. I've grown up in a Christian home, and I gave my life to Christ when I was 6 so sometimes the gospel can start to get "old" in a way. God restored my joy as I had the honor of praying with girls to be saved at camp and as I was reminded through a book I had borrowed about the depth of being born again (Finally Alive by John Piper). Each Wednesday was salvation day at camp. The gospel story never bored me. Wednesdays were my favorite day. It remained fresh.
. . . and I'm still learning.
Thank You, God, for my time at camp and for being faithful in speaking to my heart and teaching me.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Raindrops and Roses
I've changed the name of my blog to "Raindrops and Roses: Thoughts from my Heart." It's a title I had thought about since I first named it simply, "Raindrops: Thoughts from my Heart." Raindrops and roses both have the same two-sided meaning; they fit together. Not to mention, I simply love roses and raindrops so why not combine them in a blog title?
Raindrops. Sometimes they are most wanted - on a hot day or in drought. They cool my skin, and make the trees sparkle. Without them, rainbows would not exist. Beautifully simple, raindrops intrigue me. They refresh and rejuvenate. But sometimes they are most unwanted - in the middle of a family picnic or a lonely stroll. They beat down and drench and chill my heart.
Roses. My favorite flower. They're traditionally beautiful. Pure. Their scent is satisfying. But they have thorns which prick and hurt. They draw blood to the surface.
In both raindrops and roses there is both a beauty and a hurt, both something to be desired and something to be shunned. My life seems to be a reflections of these things - raindrops and roses. Things that are beautiful and refreshing, and things that soak and hurt. Within these two words are the places my heart dwells, or yearns to dwell.
"Oh, that we might know the Lord!
Let us press on to know him.
He will respond to us as surely as the arrival of dawn
or the coming of rains in early spring.” -Hosea 6:3 NLT
Raindrops. Sometimes they are most wanted - on a hot day or in drought. They cool my skin, and make the trees sparkle. Without them, rainbows would not exist. Beautifully simple, raindrops intrigue me. They refresh and rejuvenate. But sometimes they are most unwanted - in the middle of a family picnic or a lonely stroll. They beat down and drench and chill my heart.
Roses. My favorite flower. They're traditionally beautiful. Pure. Their scent is satisfying. But they have thorns which prick and hurt. They draw blood to the surface.
In both raindrops and roses there is both a beauty and a hurt, both something to be desired and something to be shunned. My life seems to be a reflections of these things - raindrops and roses. Things that are beautiful and refreshing, and things that soak and hurt. Within these two words are the places my heart dwells, or yearns to dwell.
"Oh, that we might know the Lord!
Let us press on to know him.
He will respond to us as surely as the arrival of dawn
or the coming of rains in early spring.” -Hosea 6:3 NLT
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