God has been in wild pursuit of my heart lately. I’ve found Him to be gentle and patient, but relentless in His pursuit of me. I’ve noticed ways that He invests in my day and longs to impart His wisdom. He’s been faithful and zealous, attentive to my needs and my desires, even those I’ve hidden deeply. He loves me with an undivided heart.

It’s an intimacy I’ve never experienced before in my life. Lately, I’ve felt God’s love to be tangible. Passionate. Jealous. Unfailing. It’s a love so engulfing, so complete, that I’ve found myself to be in awe when met by it. I’m falling in love with Him all over again.

Have you considered lately what kind of love you’re being offered? Absorb what the scriptures say. God knew you before He formed you. He set you apart. (Jeremiah 1:5). He takes great delight in you. He rejoices over you with singing (Zephaniah 3:17). His unfailing love for you cannot be shaken (Isaiah 54:10). He is your refuge and your strength (Psalm 46:1).

Your God desires that you to run to Him, find solace in Him. He knows when you’re hurting and wants to heal your broken heart, to bind up your wounds (Psalm 147:3). He wants to cradle you in His feathers (Psalm 91:4) and to turn your crying into dancing (Psalm 30:11). And when the thought of facing the world seems unbearable, He longs to be your hiding place and your deliverer (Psalm 32:7).

Doesn’t that absolutely astound you?

There’s another dimension to this, though. God’s plan was for this to be a reciprocal love. It’s meant to be a love of investment, submission and trust. A love that makes you willing to give up your desires for His. Ask yourself if you’re pursuing God with the same wild abandon. Can you say that you are His alone?

This question has been burdening me for awhile now. I can’t always answer with a resounding yes. And knowing that fact breaks my heart and brings me to my knees. I want to let go of all my desires in order to more completely seek after and love God in the incredible way He loves me. But where do I even start?

I don’t totally have that all figured out. I’m just grateful for the fact that His love is unconditional.

Falling should be like this—

A greater love doesn’t exist.

When I turned five, I could think of nothing better than digging up things for a living. Paleontology was a big word for a kindergarten student, but I stood my ground. I grew up fascinated with the “Land Before Time” series and my grandpa’s National Geographic magazines and collecting fossils at the beach. More than anything, I loved the simulated dinosaur excavation site at Cranbrook, happy to unearth skeletons for hours until my mom told me it was time to go eat lunch in the cafeteria.

My healthy (and often overactive) imagination fueled grandiose expectations of finding the “next big discovery” or at least an arrowhead left behind by the Iroquois. My parents are patient people- I spent countless afternoons in my backyard underneath the swing-set with my mom’s gardening shovel in one hand and little holes all around me, grainy dirt streaked on my cheeks and overalls.

I want to know why this changed. When did joy stop driving me and become something that I had to search for?

Like most kids, I changed my mind more than a half dozen times before college. And somewhere between people asking me what I wanted to do when I grew up and actually becoming a grown-up, I started to wonder what the difference was. Where was the line between what we wanted to be as people and what we wanted to be when we “grew up”? It saddened me that many of us were taught to seek approval in what we did rather than in what we were created to be.

I studied English in college because I was enamored with the way writers strung their words together. Sylvia Plath, J.D. Salinger, Jack Kerouac, Jane Austen– I marveled at the way they could communicate things to me that I couldn’t understand by myself. I studied English because I wanted to tell the world’s story, to give voice to those who were too afraid to speak up. I studied English because I loved it more than I had loved digging up those pre-positioned dinosaur bones when I was five.

And yet, after graduation when my inbox began to fill with job notifications I felt something in my stomach turn. I did not study English to become a communications specialist. Or a techinical documentation writer. Or a proposal manager. And I felt like I had somehow gotten it all horribly wrong.

It’s taken me the year since graduation to realize that it’s ok not to know what comes next. I’ve realized that God has us all walk different paths to refine us, to draw us nearer to Him, to learn from each other. And sometimes it might seem like God’s taking us the long way when really it’s what we find out along the way that He’s meant for us to discover from the very beginning.

I only go into all of this back-story because it’s led me to what I believe today. Some of us have known what career to pursue from an early age: we are the teachers of today, the police officers, the doctors and the lawyers, the accountants, the computer programmers, the physical therapists. Others of us have had to dig a little bit deeper to find out what it is that we really desire. Regardless of any of this, I would venture to say that there is something in each of us that God has placed as a catalyst, a driver.

For a minute I ask that you forget your career path. Forget your college degree or your skilled trade. I think it’s more basic than that for all of us, whether we have career objectives or are still muddying through it all. And I want to affirm here that neither one is right or wrong.

Asked simply, who is it that God has created you to be? Are you a nurturer; an encourager; a communicator? Are you someone driven by dedication and constancy; someone who just wants to make the people around them happy; someone who soaks up knowledge, a teacher? Are you a peacemaker; an innovator; an idealist; a counsellor; a strategist? What is driving you from the inside out? And what would life look like if we acknowledged this before making career decisions?

However you’re spending your days, I hope that you can say you’re doing what you want to do and being who you want to be. I hope that you’ve found your joy. I’m talking about teeth-clenching, feet-dancing, explosive delight, the kind I found in that pretend excavation site years ago. Don’t settle for anything less.

I’ve heard that following
Krakatoa’s eruption, the moon
appeared blue for two years,
darkened skies piloting behind
sunsets the color of
orange peels and red blood cells.

The volcano shuddered ceaselessly
those months, raspy breaths
escaping from its broken rib-
cage, choking the coast,
ash and stone lashing the
forest floor rhythmically,
the ocean’s tide pulling life into
its depths, leaving little behind.

We come,
almost
sterile
(our chests cracked, too)
barely breathing
but ready for restoration,
carved out like
Krakatoa, new

life after destruction.

Americans celebrate individuality. As children, we’re taught to develop our talents and cling to them fervently: Pam’s the artist; Adam’s the track star; Marissa’s the singer; Ben’s the bookworm. And though we’re all multifaceted creatures with different passions and contrasting talents, it’s so easy to grip only to what we know.

Growing up, I struggled a lot with the idea of identity. I’ve always had a pretty strong sense of self, but had trouble with the idea of letting people see all of me, not just the parts that I allowed to show. To a certain degree, I still am hesitant to do this: it’s so raw, so vulnerable, so susceptible to rejection.

I’ve indulged myself in finding my identity through different things over the years: my artwork, academics, body image, friendships, music, achievements. I kept trying these things on to see how they fit, but still came up feeling empty every time. I didn’t understand how I could work so hard at “perfecting” myself and still feel so imperfect. I know now that rather than stretching myself to the cross, I had settled for worthless substitutes. Rather than marking myself as a follower, I had allowed my identity to be stolen by transient things.

I’ve been learning a lot lately what it means to be vulnerable, to be broken and allow myself to feel it fully, especially with the realization that I sometimes still forget to rely on God to be at the core of my identity. I try to visualize what my heart must look like as I hand it over to Him- my own hands wavering and afraid to let go, my heart swollen and overused, beat up and bandaged by my own pitiful efforts.

I’ve realized over a period of time that as long as I was holding on to those shadows of identity, I couldn’t cling to God with all of my heart. Letting go can be terrifying. But I can promise you that there’s freedom and healing. God wants to take our hearts, cradle them in His hands and breathe life into them once again. He wants to take our talents and use them to reach other people, rather than allowing us to hide in them. And He wants to replace the muck in our hearts with Godly character and truth. Only once we let go can we live fully in the life that God has planned for us.

We had been talking about taking a vacation: travel vouchers and public transportation schedules, skyscrapers and Chinatown, museums, ice-skating, a trip through the city during late winter.

Then, attentions shifted.

At first there was only breath—a small wisp hovering just above the ground, vapors expanding and retracting with each hesitant inhalation. The movement, a whisper of recognition, was unsteady and shallow. Dusk settled over the highway, lights flickering on slowly. Cars inched past on either side, the rubber of the tires trailing after the sirens.

The man lay immobilized on a stretcher in the middle of a busy cross street, cops diverting traffic on either side. Empty stare, ashen face, thin gray lips. The responsible party (another man, mid-fifties, stocky with bushy eyebrows and a slight paunch) stood off to the side, answering questions from an officer. Flares marked the median, as candles lined the aisles of a cathedral.

Denise turned to me, her checks sallow and eyes wide, her words stopping mid-sentence. My hands gripped the steering wheel, uncommonly translucent. All I could focus on was that shallow breath, drifting away on the still night air. We didn’t have time to reflect, my foot easing off the brake as the cars moved forward at a more steady pace.

The doors of the ambulance swung shut and drove off.

It doesn’t always take moments like this to remind us of the frailty of life. Disappointments, fractured relationships, emotional barriers, and apathy- we live in the daily reality of a broken world. But we have hope for the future in the only living God. Psalm 34:18 states that “the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” It’s encouraging to know that our Lord draws near in times of spiritual and emotional bankruptcy. Not only that, but that He promises to heal us from the inside out, to bring us back to life when there doesn’t seem to be any hope of a recovery.

There are those experiences that shock us into change, into living again: car accidents and heart-breaking failures that drive us to achieve something more. But there are also those other moments, those that magnify God’s still, quiet voice. How strange to me that such an awesome, powerful God speaks in whispers! Sometimes I can hear it before I go to sleep at night. And all I can think is, “Thank you.”

I like adventure— backpacking and camping, engaging strangers in conversation, urban exploration, getting lost and finding my way home. But I’m also a cautious person. I’m afraid of police officers. I’m overly paranoid with my driving. And the possibility of falling off a mountain (or a ski lift) before I’ve even reached the top scares me to death.

I’ve realized that there has to be a balance between spontaneity and caution, that space that we keep open between the two and wait for God’s direction. What we think is crazy merges with the God-typical. And to be obedient, we follow even when it seems illogical or impossible.

Chances are probably good that you know of my love for China and Asian culture. I lived there in the summer of 2006 for roughly six weeks, but had been enamored with eastern culture long before that. During childhood, I wrote reports about China for class, checked out library books, and tried to learn how to write my name in traditional Chinese script. I wanted to do anything that I could to learn about the culture and would often take my parents through the process with me.

When I told them the winter of my junior year that I wanted to spend my summer in China, my dad dismissed it as one of my passing schemes and my mother refused to even acknowledge the possibility. I had been the kid on the elastic child leash (seriously), the over-protected first born. And in her mind there was no possible way she would relinquish me to a world a full twelve hours in the future.

I learned that summer that God likes to work with the unworkable; sometimes I think He rather prefers it because it illuminates His glory. For all earthly purposes, I shouldn’t have had the opportunity to spend my summer in China- my parents disapproved, the amount of money that I needed to raise seemed impossibly high, and I worried about the loss of income I would incur from forgoing a summer of full-time work. But the Lord provided as He always does, quelling my doubts as He once calmed the stormy waters of Galilee.

That June, I boarded a plane in Chicago and landed on the other side the world. Up until that point I’d always wondered how it was possible to exist in a place so different from one’s own and still feel completely at home, to recognize dissonance and embrace it, creating one world from two opposing environments. Now I knew.

I learned more in those two months than I have collectively in my entire life. Perhaps most significant is the fact that God’s will trumps everything. No matter what decisions we come to on our own, no matter what we are influenced by, and no matter what obstacles we encounter, He will find a way to show us His will. All we have to do is believe, to step out on that water and trust that He won’t allow us to sink.

I woke up and she was crying on the edge of her bed, her frosted hair wrapped in curlers, flailing wisps spidering across her ears, forehead, the nape of her neck. The window held a tin blue sheen, glossy and iridescent. Shadows flickered gently on the wall in a slow march. Somewhere down the street a car hissed before quieting seconds later.

I shifted on the cot and squinted my eyes, hoping that neither saw me. The curtains shifted narrowly, exposing a thin sliver of moon. Soon it would be morning. My grandfather sat up in bed, cupped her shoulder, and gently laid her down flat before tucking her in again. He did it with such ease and delicacy that I wondered if this had become a routine for him.

Glimpses of my grandfather’s love are everywhere, most often in his gentle patience. He combs her hair. Helps her to choose the clothes she wears. Whispers what to say in conversation when he thinks that none of us are looking. I’m amazed at the amount of time sacrificed to repetition and the enshrinement of past memories. But he loves her. So he does it.

I can’t imagine the amount of pain this causes him, as his wife vacillates between freedom and stubborn uncertainty. To move forward in life and watch powerlessly as she lags behind. To feel helpless to heal and to continue forward anyway.

Perhaps this is what we’re all called to do, though: to continue forward when things seem to be at their worst, to love “impossibly,” to embrace these feelings of helplessness knowing that it is only through our own Healer that the possibility of a remedy exists.

I think that Satan uses the feeling of helplessness as a snare to keep us from doing God’s work. War. Genocide. Hunger. Poverty. Sexual violence. Nuclear weapons. Terrorism. Homelessness. It’s enough to make us retreat indefinitely. But our God loves justice. And He promises to maintain and uphold it.

Justice and love are inextricably linked. He “works righteousness and justice for all the oppressed” because of His boundless love for us (Psalm 103:6). Love propels His justice, as it should ours. And before we can even think about doing more, we have to learn how to offer this love to our neighbors.

Our neighbor is more than just the family over the chain link fence. He is the migrant worker in Southern California, the terrorist in Palestine, the homeless woman under the overpass. Our neighbor is often broken and beaten, whether by American materialism or a totalitarian government. Our neighbor craves love, whether he knows it or not. And it is this kind of love that we must helplessly depend on God for—a love that is not viable for most of us without the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit emboldens us with an extraordinary love, one that propels us to “preach good news to the poor… bind up the brokenhearted… proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners” (Isaiah 61:1). More simply that that, this extraordinary love allows us forgiveness, grace, compassion, and reconciliation.

The demise of the human race is unstoppable, much like the progression of Alzheimer’s disease. But also similar is the fact that we can be there to ease the process, to learn how to give away the radical love that was given to us by Christ.

We love Him. So we do it.

We encounter the unbelievable on a regular basis: the tropical fish that can survive out of water for months at a time, the child born with eight limbs, the man that ate his way through an entire car, rust and all.

Lorraine is 95 years old. She is slumped in a wheelchair now, but her body holds the residue of soft fluid lines, shoulder to hip, hip to knee, knee to ankle. Arms hang akimbo, each jutted in a slightly different direction. Her hair is swept around at the nape of her neck in a soft bun; her mouth, down-turned at the edges and mostly unresponsive. But her eyes, those gray eyes were sharp. And they cut me that day.

When I opened the waiting room door to wheel her into the examination room, she surprised me with the unbelievable. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, struggled to raise her neck, and looked up, her eyes unclouded.

“You know, I was a dancer once,” she said. She shifted her gaze to her spindly legs, mere straw shafts under loose fitting stretch pants. Her metal cane made a hollow scraping noise against the spokes of the wheelchair as we turned a corner. “I began dancing when I was seventy-five years old. My children and grandchildren had grown up and I realized it was time to do what I was created to do. I was just a little bit late.”

The joy moving over her face was unbridled. No longer was she 95 and wheelchair-bound, reserved and uncertain. All signs of anxiety visibly drained from her face as she stopped to remember the pirouettes and petit allegros. She had known what she wanted and went after it. Recklessly.

What’s holding us back from living a life of such complete reckless abandonment, a life that is so filled with the passion and drive that we only look to the future, rather than becoming weighed down with the past? What’s it going to take for us to make bold moves for God outside of the normal routine? For us as a generation to rise up and execute a peaceful revolution, one grounded in God’s love, grace, and faithfulness?

I think part of it lies in understanding what God created each of us to do.

So often I forget that God has a unique plan for each one of us, one that allows for the dual purpose of serving Him in heaven and His people here on earth; a plan that allows us to use our His gifts for His glory, no matter the talent; a plan that will bring us unspeakable joy just by following His cues.

Why then do we have such a hard time grasping all that God wants to give to us?
This is a call for action: for the artists, the number-crunchers, the musicians, the handymen (and women), the teachers, the socialites, the librarians, the computer scientists and the political scientists alike. For the weary and the strong, the shy and the outspoken, the healed and the broken.

Embrace the talent that God has instilled in you. Use it to bring glory to His name, to reach out to each other, to form lines of mutual understanding and edification.

Don’t give into the unbelievable– dance recklessly, arms flailing and head bobbing. Know the song that’s on the tip of your tongue. Sing it boldly, just as you were created to do.

I am a big advocate of clarity.

By graduation this past June, I had crafted a plan. After four years of living on my own, I intended to move home, work part-time, save up money, and find a job. If I worked hard enough, I’d have this elusive job by September. And though I wasn’t sure what it would be, I knew that I would be living in a city and riding to work on the subway, a newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other. I would reclaim the independence that was rightfully mine after months of missing socks and crowded bathrooms. I planned to trade flip-flops and barbeques for leather pumps and a slot in the world of 9-5.

Then, I was reminded that no matter how much I strategize, the Lord still creates my paths.

At the beginning of June, things were right on my schedule. A position just outside of Chicago opened. I interviewed well, handed in a polished resume and cover letter, and told my mom I’d be home to visit at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Still, something prompted me to feel unsettled about leaving and I handled the rejection e-mail with moderate acceptance, unable to figure out why I met the dismissal with such ambivalence.

Within the week, my mom lost her job and both grandmothers were diagnosed with the onset of either Alzheimer’s or dementia. Priorities shifted and I halfheartedly resigned myself to living in Michigan.

I began to dread the question of “What’s next?” Since I really had no idea, sometimes I’d tell people I was planning to work at a non-profit on Capitol Hill. Other times, I said that I wanted to write technical copy for businesses in the area. I even tossed around the idea of moving back to China to teach ESL for a few years.

God has remained true to the name of Jehovah Jireh, “the Lord will provide” (Genesis 22:14). My mom started a new job on Tuesday and both grandmothers are doing well. And while I still don’t have a job in my field of study or dread the “What’s next?” question any less, my boss asked me to come on staff full-time only two days before I was due to be laid off as summer help.

Life post-college is a phase of preparation. After Jesus’ baptism, he faced a time of trial and preparation in the desert before being sent out. Similarly, our baptism exists in the new life we acquire through His death, a life free from the strongholds of sin. We must also face times of trial in order to effectively prepare and grow ourselves for the ministry opportunities that lie ahead in life. During these times, God often humbles us in order to make us hunger for Him before nourishing us spiritually. Just as He provided the Israelites with manna and quail each day in the desert, He seeks to provide for us each and every day, both in desert times and times of abundance.

Our lives aren’t set up like a science experiment: appropriately controlled with the variables eliminated. Rather, we seem to deal with all variables and no control. This summer I’ve realized that fthe only definite clarity we can depend upon exists in understanding that God doesn’t always hand out Mapquest directions. Because we’re living for God, there will be times where we can’t see too much into the future or have the clarity and control over our lives that is so natural to desire. However, with that lack of control comes adventure. And while this adventure doesn’t include living in the city for now, I can be sure that Jesus is right here in suburbia beckoning me to come and serve.