Dallas

Its been 2 months since God called me out of what I thought was the rest of my life. The exodus was violent and painful and my eyes hurt from crying. Everything I had built my post-college life around lived and breathed in Denver, Colorado and I truly wrestled like Israel with the call to leave. Denver was MY dream, MY plan, MY adventure. It was everything I could have ever wanted for myself. And yet, God has called me higher.

Not to be (too) dramatic, but the morning that I departed Colorado for Texas I read a letter from Bethany and layed on the floor of my empty room and then I cried in the shower. I packed my life of adventure into a tiny used car with high mileage, and I drove away from all my plans; my only hope in Jesus. Sometimes God wrings worship from my heart. He wraps his eternally powerful, ultimately creative, nail-scarred hands around my heart and squeezes with appropriate might, as Lauren Chandler would say it. She goes on:

"It is a deep worship. It is an honest worship. It is the worship we sometimes forget. The humble worship of crying out to God in the midst of our pain. No flowery words. No shiny faces. Not in that moment. That will come later. But for now, this is the worship He seeks - an honest plea for Him to save us." 

You know, I wish I could tell you that joy has been overflowing after the obedience. Like some kind of magical if/then word problem. What I truly feel though is that God is stripping me down to my core. No mountains. No independence. No real opportunity to sin, and responsibility far more than I am capable of succeeding in. I am seen and known in my weakness and it is not pretty. I am not put together, primped, or good at much of anything outside of the grace of God. The painful work of self examination has left me defeated, depressed, and crying in the shower more than usual. The dark night of the soul finds me sweating as I settle my new life in Dallas, Texas.

And then shockingly, out of nowhere, grace shows up like the first blossom of spring after a long winter. A cool morning. A green place in the midst of concrete. A dinner with Becca. A poolside book. God shows up with mercy and grace. And real, deep JOY. Joy that isn't laughter. Joy that presents itself as deep gratitude for the one who loves me enough to perform surgery on my broken heart. The cut is deep, but the sovereign surgeon is careful and precise as he wounds me in order that I MIGHT TRULY LIVE. The joy presents itself in muted tones, but still, it is there.

Through it all, I feel so loved by the God of the Universe. How gracious and loving is it for him to press me, to mold me, to chisel away the idolatry from my heart. My sin disease is shocking and deep, but Jesus - my sweet Jesus - adores me in a way that he will not allow my little plans to ruin what he has already orchestrated for me and put into motion. He knows and He is enough. He is good and He is gracious. He is worth every tear, every hardship, and every day that I lack the mountains. Jesus is worth it. Eternally, but also now. And worship is sometimes that much sweeter in the dark.

"But THIS I call to mind, and THEREFORE I have hope. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning; GREAT is your faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion' says my soul, 'therefore I will hope in Him.'" -Lamentations 3:22-24