For the days when I want it to be all about me.

I used to be afraid of pain.

Afraid of getting hurt, afraid of feeling anything but happiness.

I used to think my life could only be measured by the good that went on.

By the blessings, obvious ones, that God put directly in my path.

But I’m finding more joy in pain, or maybe it’s in seeking God through hurt or turmoil.

But no matter what kind it is, I’m beginning to realize that hurt on this ball that we live on just points us more clearly to the one who loves us.

That I’ll never understand the world, and there will always be things that others say God has called them to that I disagree with. But the thing about that is I don’t understand God. And I can’t, at least this side of heaven anyway. I can’t understand why He does things I don’t agree with. But that’s not going to stop Him.

And I’m going to keep fighting for the justice that He has placed on my heart. That heart inside of me, or the soul, wherever that part of me exists, because although I can’t see it, I know for sure it is there. And not understanding is reason number 324 that I’ve come up with just today on why trusting in God is so much better than trusting in man. Because man will fail a thousand times a day, but we were made in the image of one who doesn’t know what it’s like to fail.

I’m beginning to accept that there aren’t neccesarily good and bad people. No, we’re all messed up because of sin. And it’s not my place to determine who is speaking to God and who is using Him for their own purposes.

Because they’re probably thinking the same thing about me. The girl who went to Uganda because she was sick of college. The girl who ran off to play with little black babies because she couldn’t handle the world rushing around her. The girl who “God told” to end many commitments and to be still in a place where stillness is equated with laziness. And then she went to Africa. Like that’s not the most cliche “Christiany” place in the world. Saving baby orphans in a mud hut somewhere. The girl who would do anything to be back there today.

And I relate more to the orphan in the mud hut than the girl with the _T sweats on walking across the quad. And I gossip less about who is dating who and more about who just “doesn’t get it”. “Get” that there is more to life than this green and brick patch of earth in the middle of Mississippi somewhere. And I get angry at people around me adopting from Uganda because don’t they know that’s illegal? And I’m annoyed with the American church because I feel like I’m walking into a rock concert when all I want is to fall at the feet of my Savior and worship Him in silence.

Because this world is too loud and too busy, and there are days when I’m overwhelmed and in need of a hug from a slobbery baby or to feel like I’m doing something to serve Him. Something. Anything. And I beg and plead for God to please send me somewhere where I could live this kind of lifestyle. And He tells me that’s exactly what He’s done.

That the girl walking across the quad needs Him as much as Jane or Gideon or Prossy does. That He overcomes legality to bring justice sometimes. That the hug might come from a best friend instead of a baby. That worship isn’t about the building and the band and the lights or the tarp and the sticks and the clapping, but it’s about Jesus. And He’s teaching me to follow Him, not the crowd. To hear His whispers. To love His people.

Come along with me and begin to see the endless possibilities on the horizon.



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