Lists of Four

1. Four more days left in Champaign-Urbana.
   
2. Four exams. Three down, one to go.
   
3. Four short months here are over.
   
4. Four goodbye letters left to write.

Well, that's it, folks!

Forty minutes ago I walked out of the last class I'll ever take at the University of Illinois again.

I think the idea of it being my last class is much stranger than the actual fact that is. It's quite an anticlimactic moment, really. I simply walked out of Arabic, and as I left I realized that this was it. No more syllabi from UIUC professors, no more classes taught on the Quad, no more logging in to Compass to check my grades. I simply left, and that was that. Three exams to go, one final paper and my practical career here is over.

I'll be leaving campus in less than a week and it's crazy to think about how this journey really has been a blink. I type this as I sit in the lounge of the dorm where I lived for two years. My first impressions of college were formed in this dorm; my first friendships were forged here, my deepest connections.

Time feels squishy. It stretches and makes me believe that years and years have passed; an entire season is embroidered by the thread of time and at the same time it squishes, causing me to inhale sharply. Two and a half years seems much too short for all that has happened, and too long for the memories to be so vivid. Yet time dances and squishes and stretches, being both too long and too short simultaneously. It plays with my senses and I find myself wondering if I even experience time chronologically in the first place. Memory is such a present activity that ties together past events. Time bends and sometimes I wish I could fold it up, stick it in my pocket and take it with me.

Well, this is it, Illinois.

We're on to the final countdown: six days

On Poverty

I highly value education; I really do. I know that I'm one of the privileged few (about 6% of the world's adults, actually) who will ever have a bachelor's degree.

But sometimes I feel it simply distances me from the things I want to know more about.

For instance, I'm taking a class on international war. A friend commented, "Oh, that must be sad." Oddly enough, I was able to answer that it wasn't. I didn't even have to hesitate. We simply discussed theories about war in this political science class. We talked about why countries go to war and what leads to arms races and which alliances are dangerous ones... but no, its never sad. It's all knowledge... all brain knowledge.

And now, I'm taking a break from writing a paper on poverty alleviation. I had to pause before jumping in to the part on poverty statistics. Do we really need more? Is the problem really ignorance anymore? Do we need to tell anyone else that there are others who need that dollar more than we do? Will the numbers trigger a response this time?

It all feels so surreal. Me, sitting here, on my double bed, with my personal laptop, writing a paper on the poor in the world. Me, constructing academic arguments on the validity of poverty alleviation, while I have food in my stomach, clothes in my closet and a roof over my head. It is my privilege that even allows me to research and discuss and write about poverty.

 We don't need more information; we need more obedience. 

We don't need more empathy; we need more generosity. 

We don't need more statistics; we need sacrifice. 

Perfect One For Me

Some days I just know all over again that I'm marrying the right man.

I suppose that's a good thing, right? :)
But in all seriousness, I do. I haven't doubted whether I should be with Lucas or not, but some days, I just get hit by the thought, You are so the right man for me.
Today was one of those days.

Lucas has been in Kenya for the last two weeks and has two more to go. (You can read his blog here). The decrease in communication has been extremely hard; I've struggled to adjust to writing long emails about my day and then waiting for long emails back from him and then only hearing his voice once or twice a week.

But this morning he called me bright and early at 6:30 am. Of course, on the day I don't have class until 11:00 am, but I was still ecstatic to hear from him, it didn't matter. We talked for two and a half hours and I loved catching up and hearing about his time in Kenya.

And hearing about how his heart hurt for the North American church.
And how his heart was burdened.
And how we're missing the mark.
And how the pain around him made his heart hurt too.

I love it that his heart hurts and breaks for the brokenness in this world. I love it that he gets frustrated when our churches spend more money on our new buildings, facilities, carpets and coffee hours than on the least of these. I love it that he's so unwilling to compromise what he reads in Scripture just because our culture has accepted it and said its okay. Yes, even when our Christian culture has said its okay.

I'm so encouraged knowing that this man's heart beats not for the things of this world. 

Yup, I definitely miss him and am counting down days until we can Skype again and not have a seven second delay (true story!), but I'm also so grateful that he's exactly where he should be right at this moment.

Lucas, Lucas in Kenya

Lucas went to Kenya last year. I was so happy that he was going and I was super excited about all the experiences he'd have and all of the great cultural experiences he'd certainly get. I knew that going and working in a rural African hospital wasn't necessarily the safest thing he could do, but I definitely felt that it'd be worth it.

But now...

Now it's about 200 days until our wedding and he's in Kenya. Earlier this week, news headlines read, "Bomb rips through Nairobi minibus, killing six" (Chicago Tribune). I spoke to Lucas later that evening and he said he could hear the sirens outside his window. The excitement I used to have for his huge cultural immersion suddenly wasn't as thick.

And it's true... I'm not elated that he's there. I've been brought to my knees more than once, pleading out to God, that he would be brought back safely. I'm thankful that I'm marrying a man who is determined to love others more than himself and is committed to finding out what loving the marginalized looks like and how he can best prepare himself to do that. I'm thrilled that this is the man that I will be with...

But I still feel fear creep up my neck when I think about the riots, the bombings. Yes, I know that the news isn't always an accurate portrayal. I know, I lived in a country that didn't have the greatest news coverage and I still felt safe. But still...

I've been reminded day in and day out that I need to rely on God and trust him with Lucas. Worrying or fearing isn't going to protect him any more. The best thing I can do with my concerns is fall to my knees and spend time interceding for my fiance and the people he is working with. We prayed that this time would draw us closer to Jesus and I've certainly seen my prayer life enriched through this time.

Would you pray for Lucas and the people he's working with this month?
If you'd like to read his blog you can read it here.

Out of the Water

I find I have to prove that I'm Hispanic. As if somehow, saying that I was born and raised in Colombia, my dad is Colombian and me self-identifying as a Colombian is not enough to give me space and credibility within the latino community.

I spent this last weekend on a latino retreat with InterVarsity. Their latino fellowship is called LaFe and doesn't really exist on the U of I campus. However, there was a regional retreat going on called Encuentro and we gathered together a carload of latinas and headed off to a weekend of fun and fellowship.

When we arrived and got into the elevator, on our way to meet everyone else, I felt quite apprehensive of what the following social encounters would be like. I was glad I did not have the ability to read minds as I did not want to verify what I assumed they'd all be thinking, "Why's the white girl here?" Maybe a kinder version followed the lines of, "Oh, she's really into building cross-cultural relationships..." But never in a million years could I fathom the others in the room seeing me walk into a room full of latinos and have them assume I was one of them.

This weekend threw me back into that season of my life where all I did was process my bi-cultural identity. I realized that building relationships with latinos on this campus has been harder for me than building relationships with any other student groups.

At best, they're nice and quite polite, but often I feel evaluated... continually. If I'm late and running on latin time, then that's a latin point for me. If I don't/can't dance well, then that's a white point for me. White. Latin. White. Latin. White. I wonder when they'll tally up the score and share their verdict with me.

And then, to go full circle...

I had dinner tonight with a lovely couple interested in going to Colombia to work at ECA. They wanted to know all about Colombia. They asked about the food, the language, the culture, the people. I didn't need to convince them I was Colombian; they believed me. I wished that loving Colombia as intensely as I do and that the gut-wrenching homesickness was enough to create a space in that culture for me to be at home there.

And yet, I know that I'm not 100% anything and it frustrates me quite often. I want to be able to claim an ethnicity and a people group and culture as my own. Instead, I'm suspended between two, and find myself swinging toward one or the other. Some days I feel so Colombian and so comfortable with latinos and in the place I call home. Others, I feel like a fish out of the water, wondering why I don't just let them think I'm white and leave it at that. Some days I feel like I've begun to adjust to white American culture and others, I've never felt so foreign before.

An Odd Kind of Loneliness

I've been struggling with an odd kind of loneliness.

Come Monday, I only have ten weeks left in Illinois. Ten. The realization of how short my time really is smacked me in the face this last Monday. Time is running out. I began goodbye letters this week. My heart already switched from "living in Illinois" to "saying goodbye to Illinois." I feel hesitant to invest too much in relationships that aren't already fairly close to me. How could I add more to the list of goodbyes? My brain silently tags events as "lasts" and I'm realizing that this is all happening automatically.

Every year in high school, come May I'd have my goodbye letters written out and a list of people in my head I knew I'd probably never be seeing again. I was ready to transition into occasional catch-ups, but mostly being notified through Facebook on how they were doing. I was ready to now have a friend in Oklahoma, California or Europe.

Senior year, I was bracing myself for too many goodbyes way back in January. Everything was a last. Everything. But everyone around me was automatically switching into transition/goodbye mode. All of my friends were wrestling with the idea of turning best friends into long-distance friends; some were trying to wrap their minds around the idea of home when their family was moving away from "home." We all handled it differently; we had learned to cope in different ways. But it wasn't abnormal for someone (usually me!) to bring up goodbyes, transitions and leaving. And then everyone could relate.

But how do I process this transition occurring within me when my peers aren't on the same mindset... at all? My friends my age still have a year and a half left of college. My senior friends still have a semester and are on a job hunt now. My married/engaged friends are mostly out of college and know where they'll be living. I know I'll be in Canada. The country. No idea what province or city. Who knows how long the paperwork process will take; I can't worry about job searches now.

I used to say that I rather leave than be left.
But I think I rather we all leave... than be the only one leaving.

I want to promise that I'll come visit. But I won't. By the time I can come back to Champaign to visit, most of my friends will be gone and graduated.

I want to promise that we'll run into each other... in Illinois?

I want to say I'll miss everyone... but how many more people can I make room for in my heart to miss?

But I have come to love and be attached to people and places here in Illinois more than I was expecting. Saying goodbye will sting-- no, actually... it will hurt.

And this odd kind of loneliness comes from not knowing how to process it all or with whom. No, its not a huge deal. No, its not the end of the world. Yes, it is a First World problem.

But it still... hurts.

On Facebook...

Last week I went through a major deleting-of-Facebook-friends stage. Within 24 hours I had deleted more than 200 acquaintances. Something got into me and I couldn't shake it off. I felt squirmy thinking about all the hundreds of people who were on my friends list who weren't my friends, but could click on my profile and look through my life. I'd like to think that they'd have no reason to do so if they aren't my friend, but I'm guilty of looking through more than one non-friend's profile before.

And so, I was unable to focus on my paper due the next day until I went through my entire friends list deleting people. I started off with 870 people and I wanted to get down to 500. Unfortunately, I wasn't able too; I'm at about 650 at the moment.

My friends laughed at me and thought I was ridiculous for wanting to unfriend all these people. They asked me why. I've come up with a three main reasons as to why these excessive amounts of Facebook friends were bugging me...

1. Facebook feels cheap. It does, doesn't it? No one wants to find out the news through Facebook. Why? Because that means that you're finding it out at the same time as that one girl you met at that one party three years ago... or that one guy on your list but you can't remember how you met, but you have mutual friends. But what if I only had friends and family that I wanted to know about, keep in touch with and know what was going on in their lives? Perhaps it wouldn't feel so cheap.
2. Eight hundred and seventy friends is excessive. To be honest, so is 650. There is no way that I know 650 people, much less care about them all. There is no way that I care about knowing all about their lives, seeing their weekend party pictures and knowing about their stressful exam weeks. Like I mentioned before, I don't like thinking of how many (hundreds) of them can (or do!) click through my profile and can just know about my life...
3. Facebook doesn't actually help me keep in touch with most of them. Keeping in touch does not equal stalking... or even reading their status updates when they appear on my newsfeed. Keeping in touch would mean that their status update would cause me to go write on their wall, send them a message or call them! Then Facebook would be "helping" me keep in touch.

I've seen these reasons amplified even more in the last couple of days. Lucas and I finally decided to update our relationship status on Facebook from "in a relationship" to "engaged." We had originally decided to wait for a long while to make sure that no one "super close" would be finding out through Facebook... because Facebook feels cheap. So, two months after the proposal we changed our status. We were trying to delete any notification so that it would just "switch," but there'd be nothing to like or comment on. But no, there were still plenty of ways for our friends to be notified. Except all of our friends knew two months ago. And still, our walls have been cluttered with congratulations as we "begin" this new stage together and asking if we've "begun" to think about when and little do they know that I got my wedding dress yesterday, we booked a venue last week, and our date(s) are definitely set.

And so, I will continue to dwindle down my Facebook friend count... hopefully, one day, I'll have everyone on my list meet one (but hopefully more) of these criteria:

1. They're family. Regardless of how close I am to family, or how often I see them or keep in touch, family is family.
2. I talk to them/see them regularly. I want to be able to communicate with the people I talk to and see regularly. Facebook is a fabulous way of doing that. I want to be updated on their lives, but hopefully, because I see and talk to them, Facebook won't be the primary way of knowing about them.
3. Their Facebook posts will urge me to start keeping in touch again. As much as I'd like to keep in touch with everyone, I can't. But if the people on my friends list post things that will urge me to go write on their wall, send them a message, a text, a letter. If seeing what they're up to in life will encourage me to schedule a Skype date or shoot them off an email, then I definitely want to let Facebook help me keep in touch!
4. We were really close friends in the past. Again, I wish I could stay super close to everyone, always. But I can't. But I don't ever want to delete people of my list who were near and dear to my heart simply because they aren't anymore.

 

 

Rural America

I had a new cultural experience yesterday.

I visited the apple orchard with a freshman and her mother. Apparently, you go to apple orchards in the fall in America. We walked through the pumpkin patch. You get to pick and choose your pumpkins. Apparently. We had apple cider donuts and apple cider. That's what you eat in the fall. Apparently.

But that wasn't the real cultural experience for me. I absolutely love that... I definitely love soaking up seasonal experiences that I never quite got in Colombia. However, the cultural experience was talking to them and learning about life in rural America. Their hometown had 500 people. I tried wrapping my mind around an upbringing in a town of 500 people. Certainly less people than those that lived in my conjunto growing up. Their nearest neighbors were a quarter of a mile away. They raised cattle and swine. The "noisy" interstate that we could hear from where we were (I hadn't even noticed it, to be quite frank) was absolutely no where to be found. This one was probably the most shocking for me: In their entire county-- county!!!!-- there was only one stoplight. If they wanted to go grocery shopping for ethnic-type foods, they had to drive two hours away into the nearest "big city"-- Rockford, IL (slightly over 150,000 according to the 2011 census).

They pointed out good pumpkins for picking and bad ones. I learned what male and female pumpkin flowers look like and I just was honestly amazed by this totally different world. She came to Champaign, thinking it was a metropolis and I frequently got frustrated by the small-town feel!!

Our upbringings are so influential of what's "normal" for us and what's "comfortable" for us.

I literally was amazed by how different this life in rural Illinois was.

The Hunger Games

So I finally watched The Hunger Games. Normally, I would attribute my delay in joining the pop culture bandwagon-ism to my lack of interest or simply, my complete ignorance about what movies are even out right now. But that wasn’t the case with The Hunger Games. I definitely knew they were out in the spring and I would have had to live in a cave to not know that a wave of obsession was sweeping through America.

No, I couldn’t bring myself to watch The Hunger Games when I learned of the plot. I felt nauseous thinking about children killing each other so that the elite and privileged could be entertained. I had heard it was kind of a social commentary on humans; the Hunger Games would not be able to continue, as Gale points out, if people stopped watching them. After all, it is just a show. But humans find entertainment and thrill and pleasure from this and so, the games continued past their 70^th anniversary. Was I just like the wealthy and privileged that got entertainment from this, by watching The Hunger Games? 

The thought was unsettling and so, for months, I never watched it. 

But I kind of wanted to. I was curious about all the hype and the previews looked thrilling. I wanted to see the movie. 

 So last night I finally did.

I couldn’t stop talking through the movie (sorry, Rigo!) because my thoughts were spinning like crazy. The plot was fairly simple and yet I needed to voice my shock at what was actually happening. As Katniss trained and was prepared for the Hunger Games, I began to feel nauseous. My brother offered to turn the movie off, but I couldn’t now. I had to finish it. My heartbeat raced and my palms got sweaty. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the cheering crowds in the Capital and then the stark contrast of the poverty and pain in the districts as they watched their beloved children slaughter and be slaughtered. 

I was amazed watching the dynamics of the game change as Katniss displayed a humane side, time and time again. As she gently spoke with Rue, as she shared her food with her, as she buried her and wept at her death. She courageously stayed by Peeta’s side, though he was a liability to her survival and helped nurse him back to health, though it almost cost her life. She was saved by the boy from District 11 who couldn’t bring himself to kill Katniss after she had protected and loved Rue. The games were changing because Katniss would not—could not—become a player in their bloodbath. She was there to survive, but not to play. 

She disrupted the game dynamics so much so, and nearly ruined the Hunger Games by suggesting that Peeta and her die together rather than one of them survive and give the show exactly what they want: one victor. This would upset the show so much, that the possibility of having two victors was allowed, seeing the 74th Hunger Game with 24 slaughtered children and no winner would not sell.

So did I like the movie? 

It was well made. I was certainly involved, squeezing my brother’s arm tightly, crying and gasping. I couldn’t turn it off half-way through.

But I hated the plot… kind of.

I loved that one person was able to destabilize a 70+ year tradition of slaughter. No, not necessarily get rid of it altogether. No, not save the lives of 23 other children. But she saved the life of one other. She dignified Rue’s death and she refused to kill cold-bloodedly. I loved how she never really seemed to get used to the idea of killing humans. I loved her courage and bravery. 

But I absolutely hated the fact that the Hunger Games existed in this imaginary world. Because it’s not so imaginary, is it? We do find entertainment from watching others struggle, suffer and we can’t wait to see who will come out on top—forgetting that to come out on top, someone had to end up at the bottom. I hated the stark contrasts of opulence and poverty. I hated the ruthlessness that overtook these children when the need to survive kicked in. I hated the cheering crowds and the fancy TV show hosts. 

And I kinda hated that I watched on a Saturday night… to entertain myself.

Normal

Life is beginning to feel "normal" in Illinois again. I'm finding my routine and having to look at my class schedule less often (though I do keep adding and dropping a few classes!). I'm beginning to figure out when I can go grocery shopping and when I do my schoolwork. Life feels so "familiar" here in Illinois, and I even get caught off guard by its familiarity.

Am I really starting my third year here? Have I really lived here, in Champaign-Urbana, for two years? And will I really be leaving in three months?

Its a bizarre feeling, really. I'll be leaving Illinois again in just three short months. However, this time, it'll be for good. "For good" in the sense that, I'll never live here again. Sure, I'll visit-- but just like I visit Colombia. But I won't have a house key and I won't have a room here anymore.

I haven't felt terribly attached to Champaign-Urbana these last two years, but I'm becoming increasingly aware of how much I'll miss people that I've come to love deeply. Realizing that I only have three months left with them, before they too, become part of my ever-growing list of long-distance friendships is unnerving.

I want to soak up every last moment and squeeze every last memory out of these places and these faces. I want the goodbyes to hurt-- excruciatingly so-- knowing that my time here has been full.

It has been abundant.

The House of Transitions

"We sometimes call this place 'The House of Transitions,'" one of my housemates, Jess, explained. "It was my first year out of undergrad when I moved in here..." she continued.

The term swirled through my mind. "The House of Transitions" was my new home, was it not? It was all too fitting. This week I began my last semester of schooling in Illinois. Last week ministry with InterVarsity was in full swing. Two weeks ago I arrived in Chmapaign. And three... three weeks ago I got engaged. Phew! Next semester I'll be in Morocco. Next May I'll graduate from college. And next June I'll be married.

Yup. "The House of Transitions" fits perfectly. Too perfectly. I feel that I'm beginning to settle into life here at college, but before long, I'll be transitioning out, on my way to Morocco.

I'm really used to transitions. In fact, I feel most comfortable when something in my life is undergoing a transition of some sort. It gives me the feeling that the way things are right now aren't fully set in stone-- they aren't totally the way they should be, or could be. But transitions also deepen my sense of being a nomad. They intensify my homesickness and make it hard to even pinpoint where home is. Transitions make it easy to be selfish because I'm tired or I'm overwhelmed or a lot is happening to me. Its hard to step out of my own perspective and see what others are feeling when I'm at loss to figure out exactly how I'm feeling.

My prayer for this season is that I'd love the place that I'm at right now... deeply. That I'd prepare for the season to come... meaningfully. That I'd step out of my own world and identify with others... sacrificially.

Open Doors, Open Fridges, Open Homes

Rewind life about three months ago and I was having a perplexing conversation with Lucas. We had already decided that I would be spending the summer months up in Canada, but because of his medical training, he'd be rotating between various cities in Ontario. So, I could either go up and stay in Ottawa and see him on weekends, or go up and follow him around. We chose the latter, but then had to figure out places for me to stay, because a month-long hotel stay would deplete my already-low bank account.

"We'll just write churches and ask them to take you in. Someone will show up," he suggested quite optimistically in my mind.

"We'll... just... write... churches?" I was quite skeptical. What church would respond to the email of a young medical student asking for a place to stay for his girlfriend... for a month? A stranger, no less.

Not even a week before I was flying out, and we had one of the cities figured out. Lucas had a friend who had an empty bedroom in Ottawa. Good. One for three. We had Googled "Churches in (fill in the blank) and sent over a dozen emails to churches in each city. So far, nothing was turning up. I felt like I was out on a limb and I needed a church to come through.

And sure enough, we received a friendly email from First Presbyterian Church in Pembroke, where I was welcomed into the minister's home for a month. He and his wife were fabulously lovely and hospitable. I was blown away by their generousity and their desire to encourage me and Lucas in our relationship. Their congregation was incredibly friendly and we felt extremely welcomed. My parents even came up to visit us one week and they simply pulled out another bed in the basement and accommodated my parents for a week as well. Their genuine love was lavished upon us in staggering amounts.

We left Pembroke truly blessed.

Now, in Cornwall, Pastor Brad had emailed his congregation asking if anyone was willing to take me in for three weeks. A sweet mother replied affirmatively and made room for me in her home. I've been living with her and her daughter for the last week and have been flabbergasted by their true desire to make me feel at home. My strawberries went bad before I ate them, so they threw them out and bought me new ones. Their sweetness has warmed my heart.

Now, Lucas and I have been talking about this summer and how amazing it is that people have simply opened their homes to me. Mind you, their homes aren't extravagant with decked-out guest bedrooms. They have often been modest homes, but their desire to be hospitable has been overwhelmingly evident. They prove that you don't need a big home to open it up and let others invade your space.

I think of the early church and I think this is what it would have been like. Someone is in need. Someone makes space. The end.

But why are open doors and open fridges and open homes so odd in our modern framework? Sure, we'll invite friends over, but strangers? Why is it so shocking to so many people that I'm actually living in Canada with people from churches we emailed? I'll be the first to admit... it shocked me. But it worked.

I want this life. I don't want to be protective of my space, constantly guarding my places. I want to allow my space to be invaded by people in need.

Oh, that someone would be in need. Oh that I would make space.

The end.

Blinded

Matthew 17 tells the story of a boy suffering greatly from seizures. The boy's father brings him to Jesus saying, "Lord, have mercy on my son, because he has seizures and suffers terribly. . . So I brought him to your disciples, but they couldn't heal him." After rebuking the disciples' lack of faith, Jesus doesn't address the boy's seizures but rebukes the demon.

The what?

Who said anything about a demon in the first place?

The father sure didn't. He simply was bringing his son to Jesus to be healed of his physical ailment. And Jesus saw beyond the physical, stepped into the spiritual, and freed the boy at a much deeper and much more profound level. He acknowledged the boy's suffering, yet diagnosed it from a spiritual perspective.

I am too often in the same boat as the father. The father is so blind to the spiritual side of things and can only see the physical aspect right in front of him. Oh, that the blind would see. I too often see people and simply assess physical conditions, forgetting that we as humans are profoundly spiritual. I find it easier to note the obvious, external aspects of their life, than taking time to pry a little deeper and grasp the spiritual truths. I am too blinded by my own humanity that I fail to see the intensely spiritual side of life.

I see it in my prayer life. I lift others up in prayer, asking Jesus to give them a job, heal them of a sickness, fix that, fix this, bring that, give this. And yet, my prayers are so spiritually poor. Do I bring people to Jesus in my prayer life, yet neglect to pray for their spiritual conditions?  Am I that blinded? That busy? That distracted?

It is too easy to go through life ignoring the spiritual aspect. Oh, that my eyes would be opened.

Goodbyes and Distance

I squeezed her so tightly, knowing that only 48 hours I'd be hugging her again-- that time saying goodbye, again.

I had been looking forward to last weekend all summer for a variety of reasons. For one, my good friend Naomi was getting married. I was so excited for her and happy to be able to be part of her special day. And then, then I was simply excited to see Cami, one of my best friends in this life. We were both bridesmaids and knew that our time with Naomi would be limited, but I was looking forward to savoring quality time with Cami again.

My heart swelled being with someone who knew me and who I knew. We laughed and told stupid stories. We caught up on life and enjoyed being silly together. A deep longing to live life with her and my closest friends surfaced again. I couldn't help getting frustrated with my awful keeping-in-touch skills and distance that I felt all too frequently. Missing her was a frustrating longing because I knew that next time I saw her, I would still miss her again. Goodbyes were characteristic for our friendship and it became all too easy to dwell on them. I bit my lip and tried to ignore the sting I felt, seeing Naomi and 11 bridesmaids, all in one country, in one city, on one day. To me, that was a miracle.

Cami and I spent the whole night together-- laughing, giggling, talking and yes, even crying. I was reminded of how blessed I am to have friends whom I so deeply love, regardless of how (in)frequently I see them.

I hugged her goodbye on Sunday morning, feeling my heart squeeze tightly, wishing I could spend a summer with her and I blinked tears away. I climbed into Lucas' car and was hit with the reality that I would soon be saying goodbye to him as well.

This summer has been fabulous, but with only 23 days left here in Canada, I'm starting to feel the familiar dread of upcoming goodbyes. I don't want it. I don't want to leave and go back to missing every day. I'm nervous about re-adjusting to life in Illinois and oh, what if I feel slightly out of place again? I'm dreading daily Skype conversations and "until-I-see-you" countdowns again.

I know I'm not alone in this. Most people today experience the bitter sting of distance in many relationships with loved ones. It's such the reality of life today... and I'm just especially struggling with that reality... again.

Some days I miss camp...

The familiar feeling of anticipation gathered in my belly. A small grin crept on to my face and I couldn't shake it away. Nor did I want to. We were so close to camp (Medeba) and I could feel it.

Lucas and I visited Medeba this last weekend. Yes, the place where we met. But for both of us, it had a different kind of meaning attached. I attended camp for 9 years as a camper or an LIT and then worked on staff for one year. Lucas had worked there for five or six years, two of those years as the program director. So though it was fun to go back and reminisce in the place where we met, we also realized that this place had different meaning to each of us.

Every year there is a pretty big staff turnover, so I unfortunately didn't know a lot of those working there this summer. But either way it was fun to say hello to the few that I did know and simply soak in camp. I loved waking up in the morning and stepping outside the cabin and simply feeling the fresh air.

Strong emotions surged through me. I miss camp. I wonder if there will always be that pull, beckoning me to come back and spend a summer at camp. I definitely felt it that weekend. I wanted to spend the summer in cabins, counseling girls, running activities, giggling and making memories again. I wanted to be there again.

I love places that are capable of conjuring such strong emotions in me. I love places that captured a part of my heart, and in some way, will always have a little bit. I love feeling "home" in a place simply because it is familiar. Colombia has this feel for me. Medeba has this feel for me.

And though I love that feeling, it always makes me a little sad. The reason these places have such a strong emotional effect on me is because of the power role they played in my past and the plethora of memories associated with these locations. And often, the role of these places in my future is so uncertain that I wonder if soon my memories will be the only thing linking me there. There's always a hint of nostalgia during these visits.

Forgetful

The problem with not blogging for several weeks is forgetting that there are things worth blogging about.

I forget that I am learning things, that things are interesting and noteworthy and that I do have some things to share.

Blogging seems to act as an accountability partner for me. She asks me ever so often, "What have you been learning lately?" and lately, I pretend that I didn't hear the question. As my dad would say, me hago la gringa. I clear my throat and I look the other way, hoping that she'll pass me by.

It's so easy to go through my minutes, my days, my weeks-- and soon, my summer-- without stopping and really thinking about what I'm learning... what I have been learning. It's easy to go through the motions day in and day out and simply leave it at that-- going through the motions.

Don't get me wrong, I've thoroughly enjoyed this summer. I've enjoyed day in and day out. But in my quiet times, I've realized that I haven't paused to reflect. My mind is ready to move on to the next thing-- the next assignment to work on, the next quiz to submit, the next meal to make, the next, next, next-- that I hardly notice the now and I scarcely remember the yesterday. 

I miss capturing moments in writing... living life twice so to speak. I love jotting down moments that make me pause or cause me to reflect upon something. I miss taking the time to blog... taking the time to remember that there are things worth writing about. 

Transformed

Sometimes I really relate to biblical characters. I can relate to Moses' fear and Peter's impulsiveness. I can see myself in Thomas' doubt and in Job's confusion. I can relate.

And I see their raw human-ness and I breathe a sigh of relief. They aren't supernatural-- they simply aren't. I see Peter fail. I see Moses hesitate. I see Thomas doubt. I see Job question God. I'm not sure why, but these glimpses of their humanity are extremely comforting to me. It's almost as if I can relax because they too, were capable of failures... they too, sinned and doubted and feared. And then, I let my guard down. I rationalize and I allow myself to excuse my sin and doubt and fear. Well, everyone struggles with this, do they not? Surely, I'm entitled to struggle with sin and doubt and fear every once in a while, I tell myself.

But when I do that, I end these biblical stories too soon. I stop in the Gospels and never make it to Acts. I stop at the burning bush and never get to the exodus. You see, I often identify with Peter in many parts of Scripture, but never in Acts. He's been transformed into a bold and courageous man, willing to live and die for Christ. His boldness amazes me. Every time I read the story of Peter healing the crippled beggar in Jesus' name, I'm amazed. I know that God can and does heal people, but it's Peter's boldness that simply astounds me. I wonder, did Peter even wonder what would happen if Jesus didn't heal the beggar right then? Or did he, true to his good old self, jump right in, totally out on a limb, knowing that if Jesus didn't come through... he was done for.

Do I do that?

Do I jump in to things often enough? Do I have the thought, "If Jesus doesn't come through, then I'm done for?" often enough? Is my life explainable without the Holy Spirit? I don't want it to be. But is it?

I read in Acts about a man name Saul who relentlessly persecuted Christians. I read about his fierce desire to see them arrested and brought to Jerusalem. I wonder why. Why was he so set on persecuting them? And then, his life is severely interrupted one day when he was on his way to persecute Christians. I try to crawl into Saul's head... what was he thinking when Ananias approached him and said, "Brother Saul." Oh, it must have sounded like singing.

Not even a chapter later, we find Saul boldly preaching the Gospel in Damascus. Other believers are alarmed and need Barnabas to vouch for the genuinity of his transformation. Later on, we see that Saul's change was so radical that God even changed his name. And so then Paul went on to write two-thirds of the New Testament, to plant churches throughout Asia minor, to suffer and die for Christ. Oh, what a glorious transformation.

We cannot expect anything less than transformation when dealing with the Gospel. Anything less is behavior modification. Anything less is cheap grace; we are called to a lifestyle covered by costly grace. Grace that beckons us to come and die. I cannot excuse my struggles because I'm human. I must relentlessly pursue righteousness, striving to embrace the grace and the call for which Christ died for. I must desire transformation.

What if?

And some days I get very antsy.

I don't want to wait to get prepared and get trained and to finish schooling. I don't want to wait until then when there are people suffering now.

I've had plenty of spare time the last couple of days, so I've decided to listen to speakers or sermons each day. I've been extremely inspired the last two days. I stumbled upon the videos from Passion2012 and watched Francis Chan urging the church to just do it now. We have to act now. Just do what the Bible says... and do it now. And then today I watched Christine Caine talk about how her life had been interrupted and how we as Christians have been rescued... that Christ died for freedom, so that we can go help others find that freedom. And we need to do it... now.

She told a story of a Russian girl they rescued from a brothel in Eastern Europe. The girl asked why they had come; Christine told her about this loving God who rescued her and has sent Christians into the world to be light in the darkness. And she went on for a little bit... until the girl asked her, "If what you say about this God is true, why didn't you come sooner?"

That question sends chills down my spine.

Yes, there will be poor and hungry children when I'm done with school. Yes, there will still be trafficking victims when I'm done and ready to go. Yes, they will still be there.

But what about the ones who are hungry, poor, sick and dying now?

But then another thought stops me in my tracks.

What if when I am done with school and I can go pour out my life to set the the captives free and feed the hungry.... what if I just don't?

I'm not immune to the lure of comfort or the appeal of sin. I'm not. What if I am able to invite the poor over for dinner because it's my own home... but what if I choose not to? What if I get trapped in the mentality of needing to achieve, of needing to improve, of needing to climb this senseless social ladder? What if I believe the lies and forget what is truly eternal? What if I spend my energy, time, creativity on myself instead of pouring it out like a drink offering for God and for others?

Martha, Martha

Not even two posts ago I wrote about how we're addicted to hurry. How I was looking forward to a summer where I wasn't rushing off to my next activity. A summer in which I could sit and relax and take time to process life. I expected that I'd be blogging quite a bit to make sure that I externalized everything going on internally.

But that hasn't happened.

I've definitely had plenty of down time. I've had time to think, to process, to slow down. But somehow, they internal hasn't quite made it out to the external. I would have an extremely hard time articulating what I've been learning or how I've been growing or how I've been challenged.

So, I've avoided blogging. In the past, I've blogged when I've had exciting things going on. When I have stories to share. Prayer requests to spread. Life to tell. But this last week... I've had so much down time, that I feel as though I have nothing to share-- a mentality I know is false. And though I know it is false, I still have to pick my way through the lies to figure out what to share.

I've been able to spend time with Lucas almost every day so far, which has been wonderful. I've enjoyed being outdoors with him, being in Ottawa with him and eating dinners together. But when we aren't spending time together... I'm alone. Now, I knew this would be the case. I was preparing myself for this. I was ready for a summer where I would break my addiction to hurry. I had anticipated that I would begin to lose my mind.

I wouldn't go as far as to say that I've begin to lose my mind. But I may soon. No alarm wakes me; I spend my days translating, communicating with people online, going on runs/walks, grocery shopping cooking, letter writing (send me your address if you want to be pen pals!) and longer devo times. Not too shabby.

However, I find this profound desire in me to be doing something. To be learning something. To be serving someone. To be developing as an individual. I feel terribly stuck in the mundane. It hasn't been three days and I'm stuck in the mundane.

Obviously, I need time to sit in this season a bit longer. I restlessly browsed websites yesterday looking for places where I could volunteer. I told myself that I'd feel better if I was just doing something.

But that's the point. I can't just be doing things to be better, feel better. In my restlessness the last couple of days, I've heard Jesus' quiet voice beckoning me to walk away from my altar of service and turn to him. I hear him tell me, like Martha:

"My dear Viviana, there is really only one thing worth being concerned about."

Ah, if you think of me, pray that my soul would be quieted... that I'd be able to sit at the feet of Jesus and simply hear his voice.

Elevator Speech

I recently came back from a week-long retreat with InterVarsity up in Michigan. I had prepared an elevator speech for those who asked, but didn't have the time to really care how it went. I was ready to share my two-minute spiel. But I never took the time to think about those who might have the time to care... who might ask a couple of follow-up questions and who might want to know a little bit more than my rehearsed two-liner.

And so, I've struggled to put into words how CFW (Chapter Focus Week) was when I'm allowed to talk for a bit.

Surely they don't want me to go through my schedule, day by day, session by session. Should I trace what happened? Who I talked to? What stories would I tell? Just how vulnerable could I stand to get?

I figured I'd just get back and blog about it, but I've run into the same problem online. What do I write about? Who should I talk about?

Sooo... time will go on and people will no longer care about CFW, but I know that I'll have to keep processing the lessons I learned while I was there. With that said, I'll probably hop back on here throughout the summer with small posts about CFW-- a memorable story, a quote, a session I enjoyed.

But with that said, I'll leave you with my elevator speech:

"It was good! I definitely enjoyed it... I love retreats-- made me miss home. I was reminded of the importance and power of prayer and my vision and passion for college ministry was strengthened and refreshed."

Toodles! Until next time :)

Addicted

We're addicted to hurry.

In the last several weeks I've become more and more aware of how hurried our lives can be. We cram our schedules, leaving but a couple of minutes of margin in between appointments. Oh, I'm sorry, I'll speak for myself. I cram my schedule: Class from 3:00-3:50, meeting at 4:00, dinner at 5 and Bible study at 6:00. Cram, cram, cram. I squeeze in lunch dates so that I can spend time with people, and then, because they're squeezed in, I linger to make them last just a litle bit longer, and because I lingered, I'm off running, late to my next engagement. I find myself wishing I had time for a nap far too often, knowing that if I take the time to nap, then I'll be up late that night. Sometimes I succumb; I'll probably be up late anyway.

Yes, we-- oh, sorry-- I am addicted to hurry.

During worship on Sunday the worship pastor said that he had had an excellent week of following Jesus and wondered if anyone else felt that way. A few hands went up. He asked for people to call out why they felt it had been an "better than average week." Words like "discipline" and "rest" or "obedience" or "prayer" were shouted out. Then he asked if anyone had had a less-than-average week following Jesus. I heard people call out words like "busyness" and "exhaustion."

Standing there listening to this got my mind spinning again. This obsession with hurry-- with busyness-- is pervasive. It's everywhere. We rush through meals, rush through phone calls, rush through traffic, rush through devotions, rush through appointments and rush to meet deadlines.

I've become increasingly aware of my tendency to rush through life and hurry through things. I've noticed my propensity toward crowding out things I care about in order to be more "efficient" with my time. See? I can balance my life and two-and-a-half others! Clearly, I am being productive as long as my never-ending to-do list has somethings marked off.

Right?

Laundry. Check.

No... perhaps efficiency and productivity is more about keeping the list short rather than finding things to check off.

This last week I've thrown my internal clock a wrench. Alarm clock? No way. Schedule? We'll figure it out. Feel like running? Or napping? Or eating? Or Skyping? Sure. And yet, I've finished two final papers, and two exams in the last week. I've been able to serve at PADS and Skype friends who I've struggled to keep in touch with. I've been able to play games with my grandparents and go on walks with God.

And still, I find my mind whirring like an incessant machine at times. It's confused. Why isn't there something to hurry off to? Something that needs to be rushed? At times, I must admit, I feel like I'm losing my mind. There's nothing to do; I worry that I'm being lazy, or unproductive, or inefficient.

Is this "losing-my-mind" stage my withdrawal from hurriedness?

I'm so sick of answering "tired" when asked how I'm doing. I hate hearing myself answer, "Good, but busy!" when asked how life is going. I don't like it and I'm sick of it.

And yet, the idea of not doing much seems terrifying. Shouldn't I be doing something productive? Gaining new skills or a wider work experience? Making money? Saving money? Getting work accomplished? I get squirmy and uncomfortable with the thought of not having much to do. Will I pick up a book and read for pleasure? Will I go on walks, and sit outside to see the sunset-- just because? Will I rest and be replenished, ready to pour out and serve? Or will I lose my mind because I'm not busy?

I know that I need more margin. I know that I need more down-time. I constantly have to fight this achieve, produce, gain mentality that has sunken in.

I must. I don't want to cut corners on the things and people that matter most. I don't want to give them corners. I want to give them the best me possible, knowing that they love the worst me too. I'm not exactly sure what this summer is going to look like, but I hope that I find time to simply sit... to rest... to breathe.

And on that note, I'm off to take a nap :)

Stories

"I was expecting you to be talking to people! Are you sure you're enjoying yourself?" Julie asked me.

I shrugged. I hadn't seen anyone else talking to people, so I wasn't sure I should be. Besides, I didn't feel up to it. I was volunteering at PADS tonight, a community movement to support the homeless in DuPage County. My grandma had told me they were short on volunteers to serve dinner and asked if I would be willing to help. Of course I was willing. I haven't been involved in need-based ministry for a while.

When I got there, I didn't know any of the volunteers. I kind of kept to myself, but began helping them set up mattress and make the beds for the night. Sixty mats upstairs for the men. Ten downstairs for the women and ten for the family room. As I was bending over and folding the sheets over and over again, I was struck by the momentary nature of my presence at PADS that night. I would only be helping out this one night, the whole summer. I would only set up these beds, this one night, this whole year. And yet, those coming tonight, would depend on PADS many, many, many nights throughout the summer. It was an eerie thought and, for some reason, sent odd chills down my spine in the 80 degree room.

After setting beds up, I headed to the kitchen where I found Julie, an old family friend. She knew me when I was a toddler, I believe. We chatted and caught up on life while we cut bread and put cookies on plates, waiting for the people to arrive.

When they started to arrive, I was unsure of how to interact with them. I knew they were homeless-- that's why they were here. But no one else was going up and talking to them. So instead, I smiled politely and helped wherever I could. But to be honest, I felt very useless. I was running back and forth filling up the dessert tray, wishing I was sitting at a table, striking up a conversation with one of the people there.

So Julie's question was unnerving. Yes, I was expecting that I'd be talking to people too. She said it was perfectly fine for me to go and talk to them... even if no one else was. So I took in a deep breath, grabbed a pitcher of water and started walking around the tables, offering refills. This way, I began making small talk with people. Near the end of the meal, I started talking with a man. We'll call him Rob.

Rob was in his mid-fifties and was very friendly. We started up a conversation very easily and I asked if I could join him at his table. He very hospitably said yes and kept a warm conversation going. I found out he had a daughter about my age and was able to hear much about his life. My heart warmed being able to listen to him and get to know more of his story.

Ah, stories. Aren't we all just stories strung together?
Lucas teases me because I love telling stories. I love hearing stories. I love reading stories. I love them. I find that they capture people so well... their hearts, their dreams, their interests, their fears... their lives. I love stories.

And so, we sat at the table, covered in a plastic tablecloth, telling stories.

The night came to a close and I had to leave.

"Dear young lady," he cried, "you have truly made my night."

I smiled and waved back.
Ah, he had truly made my night.

Boxes

My closet is empty.
My dresser is empty save for two pairs of clothes.
My books are sitting in boxes.
I have yet to take my pictures down from the wall.

Am I really packing up again?

Strangely enough, this packing feels like I'm leaving Colombia all over again. No, I'm not nearly as attached to this room in Busey-Evans as I was to my home in Colombia. No, I'm not leaving my family, most of my friends and moving to a place where I know no one. No, I'm not moving to a different continent. No, no, no.

But, not unlike leaving Colombia, everything I own, after I leave U of I this week, will be in boxes or suitcases again. I'm not simply packing up my "college stuff" and bringing it back to a room where my "other stuff" is; my college stuff, for the most part, happens to be my stuff. I'll be back to living out of a suitcase for a couple of months before I move back down to Champaign to live elsewhere and unpack again-- creating a space of my own in the fall.

And there's that odd sense of knowing that I'll never be living in this room again. I probably won't (though I can't say for sure) live with Ty or Chrissy again. I won't walk down the hallway and stop by Karissa and Calen's room anymore. And that's just a really strange thought.

For the last two years, my entire college existence has happened from this room, with these people as core. I sometimes forget how the way we take in the world is so spatially and geographically influenced, but leaving this room is reminding me. Yes, next fall will feel quite different.

And so, in a sense... as I pack, I pack with farewells in my mind and goodbyes in my heart. I pack knowing that this concludes a short instance, a brief chapter. What has become so familiar will quickly become a memory and I'll fall right back into my familiar routine of transitioning and adjusting.

Tyler and I at a Barndance-- Fall 2010

First Snow Fall of 2010 with Chrissy

The three of us on my birthday-- 2011

Chrissy- Dec 2011

Ty and I on my birthday 2012

ChRiSsY

On mah bday with Chrissy

Me, Karissa and Ty... on my birthday

Chrissy, Me and Karissa... birthday :)

Robot

Two weeks from today I'll really be done with this semester. It's kind of hard to believe, now that this semester has been such an odd one. Beginning in January, I had plenty of new and different responsibilities so I knew I would take a couple of weeks to adjust and settle in to those. However, it didn't help that I had missed the training for most of them. So I had to hit the ground running... so run I did.
A month later, just as I was beginning to feel like I was falling into a routine, I headed out to California for the weekend. You can read more about that trip and how it discombobbled me a bit here. I returned to Champaign only to head out to Colombia three weeks later. After a week in Colombia, I was back in Champaign for a couple of days before heading out to Canada. Ten days later, I was back in Champaign ready to finally "get into a routine." Nevermind that the semester was more than half way over.

And so I went through most of the semester feeling as though it had never truly started. I kept feeling like the reason I felt out-of-touch was because it was new and different... which after nine weeks of classes, it most definitely wasn't.

And finally, last week Lucas showed up in Champaign for a wonderful week. It was a fabulous surprise and it was exciting to see him once again. I was thrilled to have him enter this world while I was still part of it. I was eager to introduce him to everyone and to show him my everyday life here. We headed up to the Chicago-area for the weekend so he could meet my grandparents and some extended family as well. It was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful week =]

And now, classes are almost done, due dates are approaching and exams are just around the corner. I've realized that with so many tasks to do, projects to complete, papers to write and logistics to figure out, my body and mind are turning into robots. It's like someone flipped a switch and I suddenly am simply trying to get through the next two weeks. I'm constantly visualizing my to-do list and hoping that each time my mind pulls it up, it somehow has gotten shorter.

It's true. I've become kind of robotic. I wake up. Shower. Eat breakfast. Devos. Class. Lunch. Class. Work. Class. Dinner. Study. Sleep. And though I know I'm alive, I don't truly feel like I'm living. I hate that feeling... quite a bit.

I want to laugh and find joy and rejoice and let gratitude be my dialect in the midst of my busyness. I want to thrive and flourish in every season-- not just the fun ones.

I want to cry out and thank God every single day. 

I don't want to be a robot.

Just One Second

Give me your eyes for just one second

Give me your eyes so I can see

Everything that I keep missing

Give me your love for humanity

Perhaps you've heard this song by Brandon Heath on the radio before; it was quite popular a couple of years  ago. I must admit that I only kind of liked it when I first heard it. I found it quite clichéd and too easy of an out... okay, just sing about caring. Maybe it had to do with the contexts in which I always heard the song: riding in a friend's car, enjoying summer and fun and comfort... and privilege.

And why in the world just one second?

But sitting in class yesterday and then later talking with friends made me realize why he was just begging for one second.

I pray that I can view the world with spiritual eyes. I truly do. I pray that when I see the hurting and broken and those who are seemingly-fine, I pray that I would see the unseen. But sometimes, I just don't. I walk by them on my way to class. I simply watch documentaries. I may get online and donate some money here and there. But quite often, I just don't see with his eyes.

And as I sat in my two-hour lecture, where our professor told us about the "silent genocide" in Darfur I began to feel overwhelmed. He made references to the Balkan islands, off-handedly mentioned the civil war in Chad, talked some about Cambodia and Zimbabwe and I felt my head swimming. I try to stay on top of humanitarian crises, but there are too many. There are too many things messed up in the world for my heart to feel deeply for all of them. I actually can't stay updated on all of them, I can't research every past crisis and I certainly can't become intimately involved in trying to alleviate the suffering in each one. I can't do it.

And what if I really did have Jesus' eyes? What if he gave me eyes to see everything that I was missing?

I surely wouldn't be able to handle more than a second of it.

How would I handle seeing souls instead of faces? How would I manage to see hearts instead of scars? How could I see blindness in the middle of plenty? How could I see starved hearts? How could I see trapped souls? How could I see the fierce grip sin has on this world?

Would I see borders and governments and politics? Would I even care about the things that I care about now? Would I worry about class schedules and summer plans and jobs and buying that new computer? Would I complain about feeling sleepy after a filling meal? Would I cling to my money realizing that two losses were involved? The loss of those who are hurting because of my lack in giving and my personal loss at not experiencing abundant grace that comes through becoming unattached to the material things we see so clearly?

Surely, one second would be enough.

Only an infinite being with infinite capacities to love and and feel compassion could have those eyes for more than a second.

And yet, only one second would be so overwhelmingly enough to compel my soul to act and to intercede and to do for a lifetime.

Ah, give me your eyes for just one second.

Crucify Him

"One of you will forsake me, following your own ambitions, chasing after the world."

"Surely not I, Lord," I heard myself repeat along with the rest of the congregation. The pastor continued with a string of accusations. And with each one, I whispered, "Surely not I, Lord."

Surely not.

But just as surely during this Easter season, I felt so out-of-touch with God and so unappreciative of his sacrifice. My mind had minimized Christ's incredible descent from glory to humanity, and my sin had elevated myself into thinking that surely, if I stood on my tippy toes and if Christ leaned down, then maybe-- just maybe-- we'd be at about the same level.

At times I think that the longer I walk this narrow path toward my heavenly home with Jesus by my side, the less sin I'll see in me. And though, I know that he has begun a sanctifying work in me that he will complete, I don't think that's quite true. I've come to realize that the more time I spend in my savior's presence, the more aware I am of my wretchedness. I am more aware of my own depravity and my haphazard efforts to climb out this deep pit called sin. I am more aware-- not less-- of my pride and selfishness. I see how sin has marred my intellect and emotions, causing even my reasoning to be flawed when I think and process through issues pertaining to God.

Not only this, but the longer I walk with Jesus, the more I see his incredibly holiness. I am more aware of his incredible nature that truly is beyond anything my mind can understand. I see his love that is without compare; I see purity without a rival. I cannot find an earthly match.

And so, the Gospel and it's significance in my life actually gets bigger... it takes root and grows in my heart.

I felt quite disenchanted by the state of my own heart this weekend. I knew that this weekend was a time to rejoice and be amazed that our Lord is RISEN... he has conquered death, sin and the grave. And instead, I was so aware of my own sin.

It took me a while to realize that these thoughts weren't completely contradictory. Christ didn't come for the righteous. He came for the sinners. He came because I was unable to save myself. I'd never, ever-- even if you gave me a million years and a thousand self-help books-- fix myself. He came precisely because I'd never truly understand the great depth of his sacrfice because of sin's profound impact on all of me. Christ had to die because of my sin. However, instead of fixing my eyes on my own sin, I had to turn and fix my eyes on my precious savior.

Our pastor continued on with the service...

"What should I do with this man?"

"Crucify him!" we called out in unison.

"What should I do with this man who opened the eyes of the blind?"

"Crucify him!" we urged.

"What should I do with this man came to set the sinner free?"

"Crucify him!" I distinctly heard my voice cry out from the crowd.

Ah, he came to set the sinner free... the same sinner that accused him from the crowd... the same sinner who'd betray and deny and abandon him. He came for the sinner who'd mock him. The sinner who'd be ashamed of him. The sinner who'd turn away. The sinner who'd fall.

Yes, for the sinner... he came for the sinner.