He Finally Went Out to the Ball Game

One of my favorite sounds in the world is the reminiscent fuzz of major league baseball on AM radio.  When I was a little girl, I loved spending weekends with my grandparents at their house just outside of Detroit.  My grandpa loves sports, and back then he was especially fond of two things: the Detroit Tigers on T.V. and the Detroit Tigers on the radio.  Grandpa's not much of a talker, so whenever he would pick me up or drive me home after a stay at their house, we'd travel quietly for the 30 minute car ride, listening to nothing but major league baseball.

When Grandpa didn't talk much, it was as if those baseball announcers became our voice.  He was the quiet, "only speak if you have something to say" type, and I was the littlest granddaughter who felt shy because, well, Grandpa never really had much to say.  Over time, though, we bonded through baseball radio.  When we didn't know how to talk to each other, they talked for us, leaving us with the sound of home runs, foul balls, strikes and "You're out!s" - all of these for me, the sound of contentment - the hum of everything being right in the world, just as it should be.

But today all is not right in the world, nowhere near all it should be.  My grandparents are in their 80s now, and Grandma has slipped into Alzheimer's disease.  After years of trying to keep them in their own home, Grandpa decided it would be best for Grandma to get proper care in an assisted living home - so he moved there, too.  Ironically, Grandma seems to be ok these days - though she doesn't remember, she still laughs and sings and plays with the innocence of a child.  For Grandpa, it's different.  He does remember, and for him, remembering means loss.

For the last two years, I have tried to no avail to get my grandpa to let himself live again, but he doesn't seem to want to.  We sit together and watch baseball, golf, basketball, football (SO ok with me), but I know there is more for him than this.  I know that, although life will never be what it once was, there is still more for him - more to be enjoyed, adventured, and loved.  People invite him to do things with them constantly, only to receive a rough, short, "No" in reply.  Last summer, I asked my grandpa to go to a baseball game with me.  I thought, surely, he'd love to go to a baseball game.  But no.  I was rejected by my own grandfather.  There is always some excuse, some reason that he can't or won't let himself enjoy life anymore.  

In many subtle ways, as sad as it sounds, I can relate to my grandpa's fears.  This past week especially I found myself caught up once again in a whirlwind of fear at letting go, moving forward, stepping out, and trying again.  Sometimes I don't want to try again.  I don't want to start all over again.  I don't want to reach out and start from scratch.  Sometimes, I just want to feel safe, comfortable, held, constant.  

Sometimes, I don't really want to go out to the ballgame either.  

A few days ago, my mom told me something that single-handedly restored my courage to chin-up, forge ahead, embrace the risk and believe enough to dream.  She accomplished this in one sentence:

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

"WHAT?"

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

And, tears.

In one sentence, I had two images flash into my mind:  the first, my grandpa sitting in the stands at Victory Field, letting himself love an old love again.  The second, a little boy getting on a school bus.  I have no idea how that second image snuck its way in, but it was as if in Grandpa finally being willing to go to the ballgame with some new friends, he allowed himself to be a child again.  Like a kindergartener boarding the bus for his first day of school, in childlike innocence and faith, he let himself try again - he let himself live again - he let himself start again, at 84.

"Oh," Mom added.  "And he's going to Conner Prairie next week."

"That is so stinking precious." (me)

I know that life is full of pain and fear for Grandpa these days.  I know that all he loves the most seems to be slipping away, and yet this week, one of the most stubborn men I've ever known finally caved and let himself try again.  I couldn't be more proud of him, and I find myself today wanting to be more like him.  

So I'm throwing my backpack on, I'm boarding the bus, and I'm taking my seat at that ballgame.  Heart trembling, hands shaking, mind wondering what is to come, I'm embracing the risk, hugging the uncertainty and telling it a big, fat "Thank you," for reminding me there is still more than this.  Whether this all ends up in a strike-out or home-run, we will have lived, and lived well.  

"Buy me some peanuts and Cracker-Jack, I don't care if I never come back..." :)

If Jesus Doesn't Come Tomorrow

Unexpectedly scribbling this morning, but here goes...  

I don't know what the rapture or end times will (does?) look like.  I don't know when's or how's or any other concrete details of the coming of Christ.  I don't know about being "here" or "there."  I don't have major opinions to argue over Pre-Trib, Post-Trib or No-Trib.  I could really care less if someone says Jesus is coming tomorrow, and He doesn't.  

What I could care about is this: He Is.  

He is here, even now, and I enjoy Him, I love Him, I want Him in His entirety every moment of every day.  I do not want Him as an escape.  I do not love Him in waves.  I do not take lightly His words.

There have always been people saying "This is the day," or "This is the time of His coming."  Obviously so far, wrong.  What makes my heart heavy today is shockingly less over the ones claiming to know the day or the hour, and more over the "lovers of God" who join in the mockery and cynicism of an atheist's heart.

The atheist says in his HEART there is no God.  When chiming in with tweets and statuses joking at the coming of Christ on May 21st, the believer himself aligns with the heart that jests, "There is no God."  Maybe instead of the mockery and cynicism, we can say with Paul: 

"Do not despise prophecies, but test everything;  hold fast to what is good."  

We are really, really good at despising prophecies - whether true or false.  Paul says to test them - i.e., wait and see what happens, and if they're wrong, they're wrong.  Get over it, move on.  Instead of dwelling on right or wrong prophecies of men, "hold fast to what is good."  

What is good today?  "He Is."

Maybe Jesus is coming tomorrow.  Maybe He's not.  But one thing I know for sure: He Is.

To those who love Him, consider whether your words and attitudes on this weekend reflect love, joy and commitment to Jesus, or love, joy, and commitment to this world.  As silly as you may think it is that someone is pronouncing doomsday (and trust me, I have been encountered in a parking lot by one of these individuals - I understand the discomfort and frustration), consider who is really demeaned when comments, statuses and tweets inadvertently make a joke of the coming of Christ.  

Perhaps our spiritual jest is one of the Adversary's very clever "Screwtape Letters"* - using the "friendly fire" of believers to harden the hearts of those who have yet to know Him.  When an atheist makes a joke of the coming of Christ, the world understands.  When a Christian makes a joke of the coming of Christ, the world wonders, "I thought they wanted Him to come."    

If Jesus doesn't come tomorrow, maybe instead of making mockeries of one of a million false prophecies, we can instead turn sleepy eyes upon Jesus.  Maybe we don't have to expend our energy joking so much.  Maybe we can reveal just who this Christ is that makes us so anxious for His return.  Maybe hearts are hungry to hear about that.

*Another shameless plug that if you haven't read CS Lewis' Screwtape Letters, you should :)

Trigger Happy

When you have a brother they like to call "Batman," it's safe to say the bonding moments can be quite interesting.  The first time G took me to the shooting range, I was so excited.  We spent big-brother / little-sister quality time looking over his guns, buying bullets and learning proper handling.  I might have also played around in his riot gear in the basement, but...that's another story for another day. 

My brother is an experienced, special unit police officer, so he made sure I clearly understood how to safely fire his 9mm before entrusting it into my hands.  When I was finally standing ready to aim and fire, he told me something incredibly important: "Get your eye on the target, then let it blur into the background.  Keep your eye on the end of the gun, then fire."  

There is no way I'm going to use the right terminology describing this, so let me just go ahead and embrace my femininity for a sec: So there's this tick-thingy at the end of the gun (the barrel?), like a little piece of metal that sticks up.  G taught me that in order to get the most accurate shot, I shouldn't focus too much on the target, but instead on that tick-thingy, with the target blurred behind.

I'm going to brag for a minute and let you know that the owner of the shop was so impressed with my accuracy, he couldn't believe this was my first time shooting.  I really couldn't take much credit, though.  It wasn't that I had a stealth eye or superhuman skills with the 9.  It was that I had a really good teacher who taught me how to focus well on the weapon in my hand, not just the target before my eyes.

So often I find myself missing targets in life because I am overly obsessing about whether or not I will hit them just right.  I get caught up in precision and perfection, instead of focusing on what is in my hand.  Over this past year, God has been provoking me to pull the trigger on some matters of surrender in my life, but I keep holding back because I'm afraid I'll miss the target.  

It wasn't until I was the one holding a gun in my own hand that I realized the hardest part of shooting: pulling the trigger.  It's really not that difficult to stand ready or to aim.  In those moments I feel a little Lara Croft / Agent Salt adrenaline burst, and I'm ready to fire.  But then I begin to pull the trigger, and I find that I'm met with resistance and lots of it.  There's a reason they make it difficult to pull the trigger: it shouldn't be an impulsive, rash decision.  It takes thought, effort and intentionality to follow through to the final "fire."  

The last few months I have felt like that little sister, standing ready with my weapon in hand to take aim and fire, but I've been frozen in fear.  Frozen in the fear that I will miss the mark, that I won't hit the target just right, and no one will rush in to praise my perfect precision.  Then I remember that I'm entirely missing the point.  The truth is, IF I ever hit the target right on, it is never a result of my own good effort, but the result of a Good Teacher, who has placed something special in my hands and taught me how to wield it well.  Like my big brother whispering over my shoulder, I hear the Spirit say: "Tara, let the target fade into the background - focus on what is in your hand."

Though trembling in vulnerability, uncertainty and surrender, I am learning to stop staring down a bullet-less target while I hold capable weapons in hand.  I am learning to trust what God has given me, how He has taught me and prepared me, and more than anything, that He is with me - to lead, to train, to enable, to accomplish so much more than I could ever do on my own.  So, though resistance is certain, I am pulling the trigger.  It is nearly impossible to describe to many others exactly what that is going to look like; it is even more impossible to explain the Who-What-Where-When-and-How's of this moment, but I know one thing for sure: I can tell you the "Why."

The "Why" is because I believe in the God who redeems.  

I believe in the God who can literally take the worst of things and create good out of it.  

I believe in the God who loves to pull the trigger on things like restoration, love and hope.  

I believe that no one should have to suffer alone.  

I believe that Jesus is present in places of peace and places of pain,

And I believe that He is able to make all things beautiful in His time - ALL things.  

So as we advance together in this "Why," I have to admit, I'm feeling a little trigger happy.  I really have no idea what God is up to in this life of mine, but I'm finding that lately, He likes it that way.  I have a Good Teacher; He is with me and even if "none go with me, still I will follow."  I'm taking my eye off the "perfect target," and spending my energy instead on what is in my hand.  I'm doing what I can, not what I cannot.  I am embracing who He made me to be, on purpose, for His purpose... and somehow, that trigger doesn't seem quite so resistant anymore.

Ready. Aim.  FIRE...

The Price of Peace

In my first year working at TC, I really didn't know what I was getting myself into.  I remember one day in particular when a student was severely challenging me; my heart was racing and my breathing grew heavy as I tried to remain calm and move toward resolve.  I was so irritated that day and felt like maybe this wasn't the right place for me.  I thought, if these girls didn't even want help, why should I care?  Why try?  

I'll never forget where I was the moment I heard it - that voice.  Walking down the hallway of the house, the whisper told me, "You know, you don't really have to do this."  That was all it took to get my wheels turning.  I thought of home back in Florida, of friends and family I left there.  I thought of very cool job opportunities I knew I could have if I just went home.  I thought of a relationship I knew I could make happen if I just went home.  I thought of all the things I could do for me...if I just went home.  

If I've ever had a "Get behind me, Satan," sort of moment, this was it.  Thankfully, quickly, the sneaky voice revealed itself as nothing more than an effort to detour me from a redemptive journey God would invite me on as a peacemaker in the lives of hurting girls.  Forgive me, as I'm about to dive into an incredibly unworthy and not-even-close comparison, but in that moment I was reminded of Jesus in the wilderness.  I remembered Satan telling  Him, "Just bow to me.  Just worship me.  Just throw Yourself down from here.  Just take all these other kingdoms instead..."  

The sneaky voice whispered to Jesus, too: "You know, you don't really have to do this."

It is only since coming to TC that I've begun to encounter the bloody battleground that is peacemaking.  We tend to think of peacemaking as this lovely idea; this calm, tranquil meeting of minds, shaking of hands, agreement and love and the like.  But my experience with God and with people the last 8 years has proved quite otherwise.  Peacemaking has become a word that triggers images of noise, anger and maybe worst of all, disappointment... the very people you're trying to help, spitting back in your face.  

Tonight I lived one of those images again.  Tonight I had a moment of thinking, "You know, you don't really have to do this."  I was irritated and I just wanted peace, but the truth is, peace has to be bought.  Peace is pricey, and it must be bought at the risk of one's own well-being.  Think of it, and it is true: soldiers are sent off ultimately to make peace happen, yet they do so risking their own.  Something that initially was not their problem, becomes their problem because they have chosen to make peace.

Blessed are the Peacemakers...  

After three hours of swallowing my pride tonight, of waiting patiently, of speaking truth in love, of correction and efforts to help, I thought for a moment, "Why even try?"  But in a gloriously simple moment, she broke, and she let me help.  We will have loads of terrain to cover tomorrow, but tonight, we found her some peace.  And for now, she sleeps.  

I couldn't help but think of The Prince of Peace Himself tonight... the Prince of Peace, and the price of peace.  I realized that in the same way I so often feel like I am risking my own peace in order to bring peace to these girls, so Christ surrendered His own peace in order to bring peace to me.  After all, He didn't really "have to do this."  

I'm thinking that if I really want to be like Jesus, there is more of this peacemaking in my future, and I've come to, well... make peace with that.  Something in me wars against this: I don't want to give up my personal comfort in order to give it to someone else.  But I want to be like Jesus, and I want to love like Jesus.  Even so, as moved as I am on this night to love like He loves, to spend my life serving the restoration of peace for others, I'm quieted by the sound of the violent Prince of Peace:

Here is the Peacemaker, so aggressive in love, so devoted in purpose, that He bleeds away His own peace in order to give it instead to me.  

What a Prince.  

What a price.

THANK YOU, JESUS.  THANK YOU...  Thank You that "we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ."  Thank You that You are our peace, and You have broken down every wall, every barrier that stands between God and man.  Thank You that when I spit in Your face, You offer me another cheek.  Thank You that You humbled Yourself to the point of death for me; You tell me the truth in love; You correct me; You teach me; You love me; You're still with me... always still with me.  Thank You for not being a quitter.  Thank You for enduring.  Thank You for enduring for me.  Thank You that You "looked death in the face and didn't flinch.  You embraced the company of the lowest.  You took on Your shoulders the sin of the many; You took up the cause of all the black sheep."  Thank You that when You heard, "You know, You don't really have to do this," You said, "I know," and did it anyway.  Thank You for that pricey peace that bought redemption... for me.  

There Are Some Things That Only God Can Do

There are some things that only God can do.  That used to irritate me.  It made me feel powerless, frustrated and defeated.  If I didn't see the results I wanted to see, I thought it was because I had failed or done something wrong.  

I thought maybe I wasn't pushing hard enough.  

I thought maybe I just don't have what it takes.

Then I realized... I'm saying "I" a lot... an awful lot...

There is an amazing young girl I've had the privilege of walking through life with for quite some time now.  She has suffered from severe depression, self-harm, addiction and more.  I remember starting off with her telling me how she doesn't believe in God, she hates Christians, and she doesn't want to waste her time talking about anything pertaining to either of these.  I agreed.

Yup, I agreed with the atheist.  

If she didn't want to talk about God or faith or Christianity, then I agreed that we shouldn't talk about God or faith or Christianity.  I suggested that we talk about the things she does want to talk about.  The things that hurt her or bother her; the things that consume her thoughts and emotions throughout the day.  So we did just that.  We didn't talk about God or faith or Christianity.  We talked about pain, suffering, and loss.  We talked about disappointment, betrayal, and self-hatred.  We talked about hope, or the lack thereof.  We talked about the cuts on her legs and what they represented.  We talked about the guy that broke her heart and the parents that let her down.  We talked about her mistakes and all the ways she felt she would never measure up.  

It's funny though.  After quite some time of not talking about God or faith or Christianity, my favorite atheist started to sneak them into the conversation.  Somehow when we talked about pain, suffering and loss, a piece of her nodded back in God's direction - maybe with an edge, or a bitter remark, but there it was: desire.  Slowly, in letting her be 'where she was' at the moment, we gravitated closer and closer to matters of...dare we say it... God.  

When she finally opened the door for us to discuss Him, to get tangled in all our questions and misunderstandings, to go ahead and just accuse Him of all that she wanted to... I found myself a little irritated actually.  Not with her, but with me.  I didn't have answers for her.  We'd been dealing with this stuff for a really long time now.  Why was she still so depressed?  Why did she keep struggling with the same old things over and over and over again?  Why did she hate herself so much, no matter what I did to help her?  Why am I not able to fix this girl?

Why am I not able to fix this girl?

Because I am not able to fix this girl.

Because there are some things that only God can do.

For the next 6 months or so, this young girl spent week after week diving into questions with me, searching through her issues with God.  She'd open up to Him, then slam the door shut all over again.  I ultimately found myself saying that phrase to her multiple times: "________, there are just some things that only God can do."  I hesitated to say it, because it felt cliche; it felt like, "words, words, words," - meaningless words.  But it was true, and I knew it, and at the end of our painful searching my soul settled in the knowledge that there are just some things that only God can do.  

We can go so far together and make lots of headway and improvements, but it's true: there are some things that only God can do...and I am not Him.  It was as if in telling her, I was really telling myself, "Tara, you can't 'fix' this girl.  You are never going to single-handedly make her life better.  You are not her solution.  These things you think you can recover for her - they're really not about you.  There are just some things that only God can do."

I knew it was true.  I said it because I believed it.  I usually said it with a crack in my voice, holding back tears.  I usually said it while praying painfully in my own heart, "Do it, Jesus.  Please, do it.  Do what only You can do - bring her back to life."  

I don't know when it happened.  Neither she nor I could tell you an exact date or moment when He did it, but somewhere along the way, she chose to believe.  She chose to open her heart and let Him heal all those things that we could not.  Her self-hatred has been banished by the 'intolerable compliment' of the relentless love of Christ, and she is coming alive in Him.  

So as I watched yet another gloriously ordinary instance of surrender in this young girl recently, God spoke to my heart, "Tara, didn't I tell you?  There are some things that only I can do."  I realized not only did she need Him to do these things in her, but I desperately needed to be reminded that He is still capable of doing what I think is impossible.


He is still fully capable of redeeming the "least likely to succeed" among us - the ones we've written off, the ones we've decided are just never going to change... and that is really, really good news for me, too.

He's still fully capable.

There are still some things that only He can do.

Somehow tonight, I don't find that so irritating anymore.  I find that relieving, and I am asking Him more and more to do what only He can do in my life and in the world around me.  I'm finding with David that it's true: "God made my life complete when I opened the book of my heart to His eyes" (Ps. 18:20).

There are just some things that only God can do.  

(And that is good).

Going Mirror-Less: "The Experiment" (Pt 2)

I've been doing a class with the girls for a few months now about body image and self-worth.  It has been interesting to say the least.  One week in particular the girls picked photos out of magazines for three purposes: (1) Pick a photo that makes you feel good about yourself.  (2) Pick a photo that makes you feel bad about yourself.  (3) Pick a photo that is using sexual imagery to sell something non-sexual.  When it came time to share their photos, it went something like this:  

When choosing a photo that made the girls feel good about themselves, they picked a photo of someone and made fun of that person.  I was silently shocked - I honestly did not see this coming.  I thought they would pick photos of girls that revealed natural beauty, or girls they related to, etc.  Instead, they chose photos of incredibly beautiful girls, or sultry women, or fashionistas, then SHREDDED them.  Shamelessly, the girls bragged on, "This photo makes me feel good about myself, because, look at her nose!  It is so big!  And seriously, her ears stick out so far - and that hair is just nappy!"  My girls, who are usually quite thoughtful and insightful in classes like these, thought they were soooo funny and laughed it up as one after another bashed the girls in their photos.

Wow...

I just sat silently and let the girls take their turns slamming model after model, all in an effort to "feel good about themselves."  Only two girls out of 19 actually chose photos that made them feel good for reasons like, "She looks like she is being herself, and I appreciate that."  When the girls finished sharing, I posed a question:  "Did anyone notice that when you talked about photos that made you feel good about yourself, all you really did was find as many faults as possible with the girls in that photo (and then exaggerate them)?  Why does it seem that in order for us to feel good about ourselves, we have to find faults in everyone else?  Why do we think that someone else's beauty has to be a challenge to our own?"  The room went silent and heads dropped.  They realized this isn't just something they do to magazine photos - it is something they do to each other at a great cost.

Over the next few weeks, conversation rolled over into past experiences and perspective.  I love teaching the girls about perspective.  The first time I came back from Africa, I was so irritated when the girls complained about food that I took a photo of a precious little girl eating her meal at a Children's Cup care-point in Swaziland and posted it on the bulletin board in the dining room with a note underneath that read: "Not happy with your meal?  Complain to her."  (It was awesome:)

The girls know that if I start talking Africa, they're about to be in for it.  Some of my best challenges for the girls come from lessons learned with kids in Swaziland.  As we discussed perspective and body image, I remembered how profoundly impacted I was on my first trip to Africa when there were little to no mirrors to be found anywhere.  So I decided to cover every mirror in the TC house - bedrooms, hallways, bathrooms, everywhere - and have the girls write Scripture or words of encouragement over them.  

We called it "The Mirror Experiment."  The challenge would be for one week, to live a mirror-less life.  It was interesting to see their reactions: "What about when I go on pass?!"  "What about youth group?"  "Can I use my compact to put on my make-up?"  I did not give the girls many instructions other than to cover the mirrors and pay attention throughout the week to how often they unconsciously turned to check their appearance, even when unnecessary.  It was fun to see the words of truth and love the girls penned on those coverings; every time they went to look in a mirror, instead they found Scripture or reminders that, "I am more than my reflection."

When the time came to pull the covers off, I asked the girls what they thought of this experiment.  One girl who is obsessed with having the perfect part in her hair admitted to using picture frames on the wall to try to check and make sure it was straight.  Others confessed that they checked their make-up in the toaster at breakfast.  Someone even said she would look at her reflection in her friend's sunglasses, but admitted she felt like she was sort of "cheating" every time.  There were loads of silly reactions like these, and I could relate - been there, done that, girls - you'll find no judgment here :)  After all the fun of it, some valuable statements came out.  One of the most profound was common to all: "I hated having to ask other people if I looked ok all the time."  Hmmm... 

We asked ourselves:

If I hated having to ask other people if I looked ok through this experiment, then why do I do that all the time in real life?

Why are we constantly allowing other people to define us?  

Why do I let magazines, society, culture, friends, frenemies and the like be the mirror in which I measure myself?  

We realized that it's true - we are constantly looking outside of ourselves to decide who we are.  We look to others to tell us if we are good enough, smart enough, pretty enough; we rely on compliments or trash-talk to decide what is good or bad about ourselves.  But it doesn't have to be this way.

We wondered... what would my life look like if I stopped allowing everyone else to be the mirror by which I view myself?  What if I found a different mirror?  What if I chose to be a reflection of something else?  Something more... authentic.  Something more... "me."  We talked about Peter in the Bible - how it was only after he discovered the truth about who God is that he discovered the truth about himself, and that maybe this is true also with us.  We talked about the idea that we were created, formed, fashioned on purpose, by a God who loves beauty - a God who creates and says things like, "Mmm, that's good.  That's really good."

We decided to try something.  We decided to let Christ become the mirror by which we view ourselves.  We decided that when we look in those uncovered mirrors again, we would appreciate the GIFT of being able to decide for ourselves what is "good enough."  We agreed to remember when we look in those mirrors again, "Today, I am not at the mercy of someone else to tell me if I am beautiful.  Today, I get to decide how I look.  And today I agree with my Maker:  'It is good.'"

Going Mirror-Less: Pt 1

The first time I went to Africa, I was amazed at the noticeable lack of mirrors.  We stayed in a house with an Englishman married to a Swazi woman.  We were in what you could call the "suburbs" of Mbabane, yet even in this somewhat westernized home-life, there was not a single mirror to be found -  not in the bedrooms, not in the bathrooms, not even in the hallway by the main door so you could check yourself on your way out!  What were the Swazis thinking?!  

My first trip to Africa taught me to get crafty about personal hygiene.  Now honestly, we had it pretty easy in Swaziland.  (Mozambique was a WHOLE other story, but honestly...way cooler experience, too :)  Back in Swaziland, though, I had electricity at the house in Mbabane, so of course I put it to good use.  I blow-dryed and straightened my hair as usual, only with the exception that I was mirror-less.  I figured out that if I woke up at just the right time in the morning, the sun would be hitting my wall making a perfect square of light through the window; therefore, if I stood at just the right angle, I could use my own shadow on the wall as a form of a mirror.........

Um.... obsessive-much?

Here I am - in AFRICA of all places - and I'm still obsessing about getting my hair straight and shiny enough.  Really, Tara...I don't think anyone cares.  After three weeks in the land of no mirrors, I began to realize how often I would unconsciously turn to check my appearance, only to remember there were no mirrors.


It was only when I was completely unable to constantly look at myself that I realized how much I actually do.  

It's not on purpose; and maybe it's not an "all-girls" thing, but it's certainly an "a lot-of-girls (and-maybe-some-guys-too)" thing... maybe it's even an "American" thing.  It's like a knee-jerk reaction: if there's a mirror around, we look in it.  We're told constantly to be perfect, look perfect, sound perfect, walk perfect, dress perfect - perfect, perfect, perfect.  As a recovering perfectionist, this is exceptionally challenging for me.  Nothing I ever do is good enough in my own eyes, so for me to ever breathe a sigh of relief and choose to say "It is good enough" is quite an accomplishment.  (Even better when I finally take off the "enough" and just rest at, "It is good"...but that's another blog for another day).

It's quite relieving actually.

After that first week of mirror-envy, thankfully God grabbed a hold of my heart and reminded me that I am more than my reflection.  These people didn't care what I looked like.  They didn't care if my make-up was on or off, and they certainly didn't care if my hair was pretty or messy.  They cared that I came to them; they cared that I loved them... they cared that I brought stickers :)

I enjoyed the next few weeks of our trip, mirror-less.  There was this sort of relief in not being able to set my eyes on me all the time.  I realized that on a whole other level, God was stirring me to live a mirror-less life - a life that was not about cultivating perfect reflections of myself, but rather, redemptive reflections of Christ - with or without my make-up on.  

Every time I go to Africa, I realize I am being shaped into a better me.  I am being shaped into a more accurate reflection of who Jesus is, because I am reminded that He is the Savior, not me.  I'm not a doctor, a nurse or some brilliant genius who will discover the key to resolving poverty, hunger or the AIDs pandemic.  All I really have to give is a smile, a voice, some arms to hug kids with (and, it should be stated, I can play a mean game of hot potato with a trash bag), but I never feel more beautiful than when I find the dirt of Africa caked beneath my feet.  

In the mirror-less land, I was reminded that beauty is more about the love we give away than the image we give off.  Beauty is found in a heart that shines Christ, in eyes that see as He sees and hands that reach out in compassion to "the least of these."  I found in those "least" of these, the living beauty of Jesus, right here among us.  

Among many other things, I learned in Africa the gift of living a mirror-less life.  My students hate it when I go to Africa... Pt 2 will tell you why - "The Mirror Experiment" :)