Surprise

I have been praying for a word/dream/something that signifies this next year. The last two days I have read tow different devotionals that both talked about God and Surprises. January isn’t over and it has already lived up to this.

God is a creator, not a replicator. I don’t know why I am surprised when God shows up in ways I don’t expect. It’s what he does.

God is the giver of life. Life is full of surprises. 2013 is going to be full of surprises. I guess every year is full of them. But this is different. I don’t even want to think about how it will be different because I’ll probably be surprised that its not what I think!!

I want it to be different because I am eagerly waiting for how God is going to move, not waiting for how I think he should move. I want it to be different because I wont be upset, angry, shocked that life didn’t go my way. I want it to be different because I will know who God is and believe it in the core of my being. He never acts out of character.

Each and every “surprise” is part of the story he is writing with my life. I am hopeful for 2013. There may be pain and heartache, but I think this is the year of summer!

On Being a France...

I am a France. I guess if you don’t know the France Family that will mean nothing to you.  But it means everything to me.  It is who I am. From personality traits to the unusually long second toe, I am a France.

During a family gathering a few years ago, a slide show of pictures was being played in the background. As I sat there looking at the faces that came on the screen, I would pick out the aunt, uncle or cousin that is the spitting image of said face on the screen. The France’s have strong genes.

It’s not just the physical characteristics that make me a France. It also connects me to a piece of land.  Land that has been home to the France family since the 1930’s; from the 9 original France kids, to spouses, to cousins, to the numerous cats and dog and anyone else to claims France as their name.

I love being part of this family. I love the stories that make us who we are, the good, bad and ugly. And there are plenty of each of those. I love that the majority of this large family has at some point lived in various parts of this world, but home is still the Ranch.  I love that I had the privilege to grow up there. I love that I had my grandma live next door. I love that summers meant weekends that were filled with visiting cousins, swimming in the pond and peach cobblers. 

I’ve been thinking about this idea of names for a few weeks. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” To some, their last name is nothing more than a label; something that distinguishes the difference between Bob Smith and Bob Jones.  A Hebrew name wasn’t a label. Their name was viewed as equivalent to the person himself. A name showed the person’s worth, character and reputation. You see this in scripture when God changes Abram’s name to Abraham or Jacob’s name to Israel. God was saying who they were and who they were going to be.

These thoughts came about while discussing the Israel/Palestine conflict. In my limited knowledge and understanding, I tried to explain a little about what the fighting is about- land. Of course there is much more to it and it is much more complex. But both people want the same land. Both have connections to the land. It’s not just about X number of square feet that belongs to them. It’s about their history. Their story. Their family. Their name. It is at the core of who they are.

I am not just a France. I am a daughter of the Most High. I am an heir along with Jesus. He has given me his name. When he looks at me, he sees his perfect, holy, righteous son. Why do I struggle to embrace this name? It is who He says I am. Am I proud of the legacy I now have? I have a responsibility to live a life that reflects the name I have been given. 

Do I believe I am who he says I am? Does it shape the way I act, the things I do, what I say?

The Heart

A friend asked if I had written anything to process what had happened. I hadn’t at the time and this is still a rough draft of my thoughts. That evening I sat down to started writing, and with the first few words I began to weep for the first time. I hadn’t cried yet. Really cried. I teared up a bit as I talked on the phone with my aunt while we were in the emergency room. I teared up a bit as I left the heart hospital to drive home once the stent was put in. But that was it. I am a crier and I didn’t cry.

About a month ago my Dad’s heart broke in a manner of speaking. He had a heart attack. I watched as he grabbed his chest in pain. I watched as the heart monitor kept showing more and more that something was wrong. I watched as they wheeled him to another room on a gurney he barley fit on because he is so tall.  I watched as they gave him life saving drugs that also had the power to potentially kill him. I watched for five days. I watched my dad lay there with a broken heart.

He has healed now.  He even has some metal reinforcement. And while I wasn’t the one in the hospital bed, my heart broke at the same time. That was my dad lying there.  My first thoughts were of my grandfather, whom I never met because he died for the very same reason we were taking my father to the hospital. I thought about what that did to his family and how they were forever changed. I thought about how very grateful I was to be home when it happened. I thought about how common heart attacks were these days and how much progress has been made with technology and medicine and how none of that mattered at the moment because this was not a common thing because this was my dad.  I thought about how Peter was out of the country and how he might react when he heard. I thought about how I was supposed to get coffee with my dad the next day, but that wouldn’t be happening anymore. I thought about how I would rather be anywhere else than that hospital room, but that was also the only place I wanted to be.

The heart is a great many deal of things to us. In a physical sense, it is the source of life. It is the muscle that pumps blood to the rest of our body to keep us alive.  In a Spiritual sense, it is the source life. It is where our passions, desires and feelings life.

While both of these hearts can be the strongest parts in our body, both of them need great care. Both are fragile. When either of our hearts isn’t working correctly, our entire body suffers. Both have the ability to break. They can break for any number of reasons. Some we have control of and some are no fault of our own. Sometimes they need to be broken in order to be set straight again. Other times we can see the ways the broken pieces are put back together to show a beautiful new heart.

I am praising God that he is the creator and healer of both of our hearts.

“Guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.” 

Ebenezer

2012 is almost over. This has been one of the hardest yet most fulfilling years I have experienced in a while. It is one that is full of pain and tears. It is full of joy and sorrow. It is full of stripping away of the old and watching the new grow. It is full of laughter, lessons and change.

It needs to be remembered. God calls us to remember. He knows his kids are forgetful so he calls us to create markers, that when we see it, we will remember where God brought us from. An Ebenezer. A stone of remembrance.

Writing is my Ebenezer. It is something I do quite often. Most of my words are thoughts or a phrase that when I go back and read don’t make much sense to me any more, but at the time meant something. The rest are cries and prayers to God. I don’t write just for the sake of it. I write because I want to remember. I write because those words heave meaning for me. I write because I need to process. I need to do it, for my own sanity. I need to put my thoughts on paper. Then do it again. And maybe one more time until I am being honest with myself about how I am really thinking/feeling. I need to be able to look back at where I have been to see where I am.

The older I get, the more I do it. I have just started my fourth journal this year. Without these, I would miss seeing ways God has worked this last year. This summer I sat at a park one morning before work. While fighting to hear from God and understand what in the world he is doing, I did my Christian duty of reading my Bible. When I don’t know what else to read, I find a Psalm. The one I read that day was one of David’s lament. He was asking how long God would continue to forget him. His words were just what I was feeling but was too afraid to tell God. I finally broke down and in tears asked God when he was going to hear me. How long was he going to forget me? It was one of the most freeing moments I have had.

A few weeks ago, I read over several journals recounting some of the incredible things I was able to do the last twelve months. In doing so, I found that I had written about some of those very things years ago. While there are still wants and desires that God hasn’t given me yet, this whole year He has been giving me other desires of my heart, ones I didn’t even realize were even there.

Here I raise mine Ebenezer; hither by thy help I come…

Haiti

I am 28 years old. Holy Crap. THat number feels so big and yet I dont feel old enough to be 28. I always get senitmental around birthdays and the end of the year. I always go through my jornals and see what the last year held. Interestingly enough, both of my trips to Israel and Haiti were written about long before I knew they were possibilities.

So while 27 went and 28 came and my hopes for those years didn't materialize, God was giving me some of the desires of my heart and I didnt see that until now.

Haiti. I've struggled with sharing about this trip more than any other. In someways, I feel I have nothing to share. I didnt 'do' much. And how do I put into words the desvestation, the need, the hope and the resiliance I saw in the Haitians.

As with most other countries I have been to, Haiti has a piece of my heart. These last few weeks I have felt as if I left more of it there than I thought. I want to go back.

I went with my friend who is a missionary with Reach Global. I love how they have chosen to help. THey are partnering with the Haitians who are already doing the work. They are learning from those who are already in the midst of it, providing support and rescources to expand their ministries.

30% of the country is christian/catholic, the rest practice voodoo. There are 9 million people on this island. This country has a rich and troubled history.

I met up with my friends Steve, Alessandra and Eric in Florida and flew an hour and half to Port au Prince, Haiti. We went through customs in the main airport that has yet to be rebuilt after the earthquake 2 years ago. Most of Haiti is still this way, not yet rebuilt.

Our first day was spent just settling in. We stayed at the "Haitian Queen", the Reach Global base house. Before dinner that evening, we went for a walk up the hill behind the house. We had a view of the city out to the ocean. Incredible beauty! Hot. Muggy. Gross. More sweat than I have ever experienced in my life. Beautiful.

Sunday we went to a local church. After intruducing the foreigners, the pastor told us, You are welcome here anytime. You are in our Fathers house. Its after attending a service like that, where every note the worship leader sang was off key while the keyboard player made up his own song, while we sat for 2 hours on the bench that was made from scraps of wood that was graciously given to the visitors, that I get so frustrated with my and others opinions of what church should look like. It is they who understand what it means to worship.

We were surroundecd by the young girls who kept pinching my white skin, comparing it to theirs while laughing at us because we didnt understand what they were saying.

That afternoon Maxo, one of Reach Globals partners, came over when he heard we were there. He wanted us to teach his english classes that were about to start.
I was not prepared for this and was greatful Steve took the lead.

Monday we went to an orphanage. Ale and Eric took pictures and bios of each child for a sponsorship program that they want to start while I played. Lots of hand games and jump rope. Neither require an understanding of language.
That afternoon we went to another program called My Life Speaks that provides kids with a meal a day among other things.

I could talk about each "partner" they have. Each one has a desire for their community to be changed by the gospel while providing a tangible need.

Tuesday we were back at Maxo's school taking pictures and bios. Again, while I played. My hair was a big facination with the girls. These 60 kids still meet in a building that was badly damaged by the earthquake.
That afternoon we helped paint a house for an American family who was coming that weekend to stay long term.

Wednesday we went to the other side of the Island to Jesus In Haiti Ministries. We met with a group of young pastors. Steve helps with theological training for them. We were told we were going to have to share on the woman's role in marriage and family...
This was by far my favorite day. These young men long to know more and to teach it to their people.

Thursday we went to another orphanage. Many of these children have living parents who can't or don't want to provide for them any more. That evening we watched a soccer tournament for some tent cities in the area while we waiting for the Brazilian team to arrive.

Friday we prayer walked our town, Gressier, with the Brazilians. I love their hearts, their faith and their ability to see and hear the spirit.

Saturday we said goodbye to Haiti and flew home. An hour and half I was back in Florida. There is something so wonderful yet troubling about this country that is so close.

Exercise. Anyone who knows me, knows how much this word and the act of, makes me cringe. There are many reasons I dont like it. Most of which are flat out pathetic excuses to not do something that is good for me. Why go to the gym where I know I will become sweaty, sore and tired; when I can sit on the couch, eat delicous unhealthy food and laugh while watching an episode of friends.
The biggest draw back to getting off my butt is because I am afraid (there is that word again) of the pain. The physical pain of being out of shape and the emotional pain of realizing how much work (ie physical pain) its going to take to get into shape.


I'm taking a class at my church called A Grace Experience. Its a class for women only on just that, Grace. Accepting and recieving. One doesnt need grace unless they have messed up. This class will allow us the opportunity to be open and honest with one another about areas we fall short, allowing our group to speak in us in truth and grace. Also read: EXERCISES that painfully and akwardly force us to share our crap...then something about truth and grace yada yada yada.


Each week, I have gone not wanting to be there. Its those exercises that bring fear (oh, hey there). Its because I know it will be painful. Who wants to talk about ways they have failed. Areas they are weak. Sin. It sucks. It hurts. Ive spent a life time trying to avoid it and in doing so, I have made it that much more painful.


As I was driving home from last weeks meeting thinking about how hard it is to be vulnerable with others a random story popped into my head. Actually, not random at all. Im believing that it was a God moment to help me understand what and why Im doing that.


Date: Some year while I was in elementary school
Location: The blacktop. Lunch time


I was never very good at sports- still am not. I was never fast enough, agile enough, or just plain talented enough. And that was ok. Im the one who likes to watch from the sidelines (and maybe that was why!). Im the one who "votes" for a team and confuses basetball and football teams.


Dodgeball was a staple during recess. I actually liked playing. I will still occasionally tell this story to showcase my cleverness. (HA)


Whenever I was on the team that was inside the circle, I would always stand as close to the edge as I could. The other team assumed 1. I was already out. or 2. I was on their team. Therefore they never threw the ball at me. After they thought they'd hit the final person Id jump out and be declared the victor!


Some thought it was a brilliant strategy. Others were mad because I wanst really playing the game. And they were right. I wasnt playing. I was in just enough not to be out. Being on the edge saved me from being hit. I didnt have to face the disappointment of being the first out...because I always was. This way I didnt have to be knocked down.


Cleverness had nothing to do with it. It was only because know one ever knew what team I was really on. I've spent my life not letting outehr know who I am. I particiapted just enough to give the impression that I am known. I do what I can from being knocked down and showing Im not good enough. I sit on the edge and watch as others live life, stepping in the circle only when necessary and pulling myself out as soon as I can.


Ive been spectating the game of life. Fear (old friend!) keeps me on the side. I need to learn that yes, I will be knocked down, hurt and at times not good enough. But Im not playing the game alone. My teammates are wanting to come alongside me. By not participating I miss out on THEM! I miss letting them help me up. And I forfit their ability to use their God given abilities.


Lord help me to risk and move to the center of the circle.

Do It Afraid

Do It Afraid! This was the title of a blog I read. Fear is always there, until it isn’t. We think we have conquered it, until it rears its head again. It should not be part of my vocabulary. But it is. A regular part. It’s always in my thoughts. Always lingering. Always louder. Always dictating how I act, what I say, what I do. "Once you give fear a second glance, it grows and begins to shade every area of life with grey suspicion. It becomes a kind of twisted permission to not do anything"

 Fear is not who I am. It is not part of me. It is actually the opposite of who God says I am. But it still controls me. It’s the voice I pay the most attention to. And I am learning that at the root of it (as with so many other areas of my life) I listen to it because I don’t trust the still small voice.

 Skydiving is dumb. Let’s be honest, why would anyone willingly jump out of a perfectly good plane?! Never in a million years would I have ever though I would be saying yes to it, let alone following through. And most people who hear about it have the same response. YOU?! But I was tired of letting fear rule my life.

 In a moment (a fleeting moment) of bravery, I said yes. Everything in me screamed NO! Actually the fear screamed No. A small (very small) part of me wanted to be brave, to be bold, to just jump and stop listening to that voice. So I paid my deposit. And the voice got louder. I wanted to back out. I thought of every excuse I could. And oddly enough it was my pride that wouldn't allow it, along with some friendly encouragement.

 The more I thought about it and thought of ways out of it, I began to see this as symbolic for me spiritually. My prayer for a while has been asking God what’s next? And I often wonder how many times he has given me an answer but I just haven’t heard it because I am so attune to hearing and thinking that I can't do whatever it may be. Its safer right where I am. I think to myself, YOU?!

 If I am 100% honest, I don’t completely trust who God is. I don’t trust that He knows what he is doing. If I did, I know my life would look different. I wouldn’t be afraid! I want to trust. I want to go, do, say whatever he asks of me. I want to jump, trusting that he will catch me and enjoy the exhilarating, beautiful fall into my father’s arms.

 Jump day came. I have never been more terrified of a 10-minute period of time in my life! 10 minutes! That is it! 10 minutes of what could be the most exciting time of my life. 10 minutes of proving to myself and others that I can do this. 10 minutes that could possibly end up being the last of my life. And 10 minutes of telling that voice to shut the hell up.

 But the funny thing was that it was still there all the same. Fear. The death grip on my harness and the words coming out of my mouth proved it. But I did it. I did it afraid. I jumped out of that freaking airplane. Fear will always be there in one way or another. I’d guarantee that I’d still be afraid if I were to do it again. But I am called to trust. To trust Him so completely I’d be in trouble if he doesn’t come through.

 Fear doesn’t want me to trust. I need to do it afraid, knowing God has unimaginable things waiting if I would just say yes. He’s not asking me to go solo. I’m going tandem with the Creator. I get to jump with the giver (and taker!) of life. He’s tapping me on the shoulder waiting for me to let go of the harness so I can spread out my arms and soar.

 As we were being instructed on what to do and not do, the guy said actually there really is nothing you can do to screw this up. Our instructors know what they are doing and can fix what you do wrong. Ah, music to my ears! The same is with God. I am not expected to have it all together or to know everything. I am just supposed to follow his lead.