Last Friday, Sam and I were in Alanya, Turkey, chaperoning the school's senior class trip. Our hotel's wifi was spotty at best, so I was forced to take a little vacation from the blog. And vacation we did, complete with long walks on the beach, ice cream, and endless trips down the hotel water slide. 

Honestly, I hadn't been looking forward to this trip. I was nervous about chaperoning a bunch of teenagers, and the whole thing was planned by a kitschy travel agency, which is the antithesis of my usual vacation style. We were originally supposed to go to Antalya, where I'd lived before, but the agency insisted that Alanya would be cheaper and just as nice. While Antalya is a lovely city, I was sure that Alanya would be a resort trap full of Russian tourists...which, actually, it kind of was. 

But we had an absolutely fabulous time. Despite teenage antics and speedo-clad Soviets, we relaxed—truly relaxed—for the first time in months. 

These past two years in Kosovo, we've been pretty heavy laden. Sam described it best in Turkey when he told me, "I always knew I could do better, but I also knew that I couldn't do better, given the circumstances." He was talking about work, but we both agreed that it was true of almost every aspect of our lives. We wanted to do our very best, and we knew that if we worked hard, we could do it. Except for one problem: there was only so much superhuman energy to go around, and in Kosovo, that easily got slashed in half.   

Yet, despite these shortcomings, God has given us both an increasing sense of grace and peace about finishing here. In Turkey, this was more palpable than ever. The vacation—free because we were chaperons—was a sweet gift of rest and processing time. It felt like God was releasing us, untying the burden we'd carried the whole season, and saying, "Well done, you carried it all the way. Now sit and catch your breath." 

As I lounged poolside, watching Sam go down the water slide for the hundredth time, I nearly wept, I was so relieved to see him having fun. He looked so childlike, so totally unburdened and free. And I felt the same way he looked: joyful and free. Thankful that we made it through. Thankful that God wasn't disappointed in us. 

Later, one of the students engaged us in a conversation about religion. He was a devout Muslim and, as I later found out, had a habit of proselytizing everyone he met. Lucky for him, I tend to like these conversations and have a few things to say about my own faith. We chatted for hours, debating the nature of God and the pitfalls of religion. 

Mostly, though, we talked about sin and how to be free from it. 

My young friend, who really had such a tender heart, was convinced that he needed to follow every rule in the Koran to keep from sinning. He needed to set up hedge rules: not a drop of alcohol, not an inch above the ankle. He needed to pray at the right time, the right way. He needed to stay away from sinners, lest they lead him into temptation. Beyond that, he needed to hate them, as God hates sinners. 

He seemed, more than anything, afraid. Perhaps he would call it a holy, healthy fear. But I just call it the fear that comes in the absence of love, the absence of grace. I call it slavery. 

I told him that I wasn't afraid of sinning or falling short, because Jesus' sacrifice covers me. Because the Holy Spirit lives in me and mysteriously, amazingly makes all things work for good. Because my one desire is to be in the presence of God, and that is a far greater incentive to run from sin than a bunch of rules. I told him about God's freedom, and how it feels to live in it.

His response: "That's intense." Yes, my friend, it is. But in the best possible way. 

When it comes to faith, I'm often in the "I know I could do better, but I also know I couldn't do better" boat. And I'm so thankful that, in Jesus, I don't ever have to graduate from that. I can always be weak. I can always fall into prayer and worship, absolutely desperate for God's presence. I can always repent and receive grace. I can always hand my life over to God and ask him to make up for my failure, to carry the burden I can't bear anymore. 

I don't have to be perfect, and neither do you. If your life is in Jesus' hands, you are free. Even if you are in a season of burden, you are free from doing perfect work, from having it all together. You are free from legalism, from rules and hedge laws and fear of sin. You are free from productivity. You are nobody's workhorse: you are dearly loved and held together. 

If you're like me, and you can't do better for God, let him do better for you. He will set you free. 

As I've been working on my book, writing through our marriage story, I've noticed a pattern arising. Some of the most significant events—and particularly those involving our hearts—happened in the wilderness. When we were in the middle of nowhere at the end of our resources, when we were isolated, when we were hungry ...grace happened.   

And everything changed. 

If you know Sam and me, you might have heard some of these stories. You might know that I found forgiveness for old wounds while I was bald and cleaning toilets in India. Or that Sam was left alone in the Midwest for six months before our wedding, working out his heart's perseverance. That I've worked in the desert, and he in the inner city. That we've gone days without food. That both of us can sleep almost anywhere now. 

But suffice to say, we've become who we are—both as individuals and a couple—by walking through the wilderness. 

Though I couldn't have articulated it two years ago, this is exactly why I wanted to move to Kosovo. I remember being overwhelmed by the big institutions we were entering into—adult life, marriage, careers—and intuitively knowing that we needed to withdraw. Not necessarily into a literal wilderness, but somewhere away from America, away from our usual comforts and crutches. 

Like the Spirit sending Jesus into the wilderness to fast and be tempted, I felt absolutely compelled to walk into a place I knew would be hard. 

I sensed that in order to get where we wanted to be in our marriage and our lives, we needed to go somewhere that would make us humble and hungry. We needed, essentially, to fast. To get away from distractions—even the good ones like our families and our State-side communities—and the comfort of our own culture in order to see something even better. To see God's plan for us, and enter the culture of his kingdom.  

I used to think that fasting was kind of weird and masochistic. I mean, what glory would God get from me being hungry and grumpy all day? But then I tried it, and I soon realized how powerful it was. When I go without, all the junk in my heart comes out. I'm an emotional wreck. I reach the end of my strength and character. And it is there that God meets me, takes me higher. 

This is what Kosovo has been for us. 

We have been weak and sometimes downright grumpy, but we have found our hunger for God and his kingdom. We have relied on Him for everything—finances, community, health, and daily strength for the task. We have let him strip our lives down to the bare minimum. All while knowing that this wilderness is better than any comfort, any safe road. 

Of course, you don't have to go to Kosovo to get to this point. You don't even have to leave your home. But you do have to be willing to let God lead you through the wilderness, whatever that might be in your life. Maybe it's letting go of your finances—believe me, guys, God provides. Or maybe it's stripping away distractions that keep you from growing in your marriage or other relationships. Turning off the computer, or putting away your phone for a while. Or maybe, it's traditional fasting. Sinking into the hunger and really dealing with the anger, depression, or bitterness you've buried deep in your heart. 

The wilderness lays our lives bare before God, so he can do a good work in our hearts and prepare us for the season to come. As I'm writing about this in my book, I'm realizing how much God desires for his children to walk into these places with him, trusting him to guide them through. I'm hoping that Sam's and my testimony will help people to have the courage to step into the wilderness. 

I'm hoping that you, today, will be brave. And embark. 

This week, a good friend of mine came to visit us in Prishtina. As I showed her around the city, I realized that more often than not, I had us going upward. In fact, almost all of my favorite spots in Prishtina are high above the city. 

We climbed up hillsides, sipped macchiatos on rooftop cafes, and even trekked to the top of the new cathedral's bell tower. From there, this is what you see: a pristine Prishtina, with red roofs spread over the green valley. 

But as beautiful as this is, it's not really the Prishtina I know—the one I walk through every day. When you get back on street level, you see the cracks in the sidewalk and the places where the sidewalk barely exists it's crumbling so badly. You see all the flaws: the shoddy buildings, the smoggy air. Even basic infrastructure isn't reliable here. Last Friday, our internet was out all day. Today, our water is shut off. Sometimes things get fixed, and sometimes they don't. Most take a long time.  

It's not unlivable, but it's often uncomfortable. And it's easy to get focused on the flaws. Some days, I don't really want to leave my house or even my bed. I don't want to deal with the unpretty side of Prishtina. I don't want to breathe the lignite coal smoke, shove through packs of teenagers (out at all hours because the overcrowded schools teach in shifts), or brush off the incessant gender harassment.

For me, street-level Prishtina is exhausting, and often all-consuming. When I'm marching into town, it's hard to remember the way the roofs glisten in the sun or the way my favorite taxi driver's eyes crinkle when he's telling a good story. Because, honestly, I'm just trying to get through it. 

When I'm focused on Prishtina's flaws and "just getting through it," I forget every good and beautiful thing about this city. I forget the bell-tower view, the sweet friendships, and the fresh smell of the bakery down the road. I lose that high-up perspective that makes everything seem lovely and manageable again. 

Which is precisely why I go back to those high places, again and again. I need reminding that this city can be beautiful. That there is a plan and design to the chaos. That, even if I can't always see them, there are trees and hills nearby. That this place is alive and constantly changing.   

As I've been processing through our time here, I've realized that my perspective on life is very much the same. While we're here, living and working in the trenches, it's been very easy to see the flaws. And only the flaws. It's been easy to focus on how I've fallen short or how others have fallen short towards me. It's been easy to see the cracks in the churches and foreign aid. It's been easy to see what didn't get fixed during our two-year commitment. 

It's been a lot harder to see God's overall plan for this place, and how we fit into it. Some days, it's almost impossible for me to fathom why he sent me here. I feel like I've done so little and failed so much. Though I want to be rejoicing in accomplishments, I find myself mourning over baggage—the anger, sadness, and stress I've picked up just getting through the time. 

Over and over, I have to climb back to a heavenly perspective on our time here. I have to remind myself that God doesn't expect me to be perfect (Romans 3:23), and that he really likes using unqualified, messed up people who are willing to have faith and obey him (Hebrews 11). I have to remind myself that God's accomplishments and victories aren't dependent on my seeing them, and that many of them will happen outside my view (Job 42:1-3). 

Most of all, I have to remember that while I'm just getting through it, God is restoring it—all of it.  

If I could look down on my life the way I look down on Prishtina from the bell tower, I think I would see God's hand in so many areas, smoothing out the rough parts of my heart and transforming my mind. I would see him stirring in my work and in my relationships. I would see him rippling grace through this city, through all the near-insignificant things I do in faith each day. 

I think I would see myself enveloped in so much more grace and love than I feel. I would see the ways that God is tenderly intervening. I would see everything he's making go right, and why he's letting some things go wrong. I would see what he thinks is lovely about this life, and be able to call it lovely with him. 

The wonderful thing about our God is that he sees the street view of your life—all that is ugly and unholy--but he chooses to view you as you will be: restored and lovely. He sees you from high places, where all that you can and will become is clear, and the chaos of your present life makes sense. And he loves you, even when you're not seeing the same. 

I hope that we can step back from the lives we know too well—the broken, ugly parts of ourselves and our lives—and choose a higher perspective. Even if just for a moment. 

The view from up here is good. Come and rest awhile. 

Friends, I'd like to share this theory I have. It's not a hard and fast rule for spiritual life, but it's been very true in my experiences with God. Moreover, it's helped me to be more contented with where I am and how God is moving in my life. Hopefully, you'll find it helpful too. 

When I'm in need of growth, I can always count on God to intervene, often before I myself realize I need it. Whether it's past baggage, spiritual complacency, or just plain maturing, he always shows up to help me move forward in my faith. 

During these times, God uses one of two ways to grow me: he'll either send me out to be a pilgrim or he'll tell me to stay in and be a monk. 

Now, I've been on a few actual pilgrimages and lived in some actual monasteries, but I don't mean this literally. A pilgrimage season, to me, is any time God wants to work in you by moving you. He'll send you out into the world to journey, labor, and overcome obstacles. There's a lot of change, and you learn new things about the world and yourself. Usually when I'm traveling or starting new work, I'm on pilgrimage. God is stretching me and showing me how much he can do through me. 

On the other end of the spectrum, a monastic season is any time God asks you to stay and be still. This time is marked by isolation, waiting, and stripping away. You sit in the loss and the restlessness, and you grow your capacity for faith and perseverance. Surprisingly, our time in Kosovo has been a monastic season for me. God asked me to stay home, rest, and do less work than ever before. I've been antsy as all getup, but I've learned (and relearned) how to be still and find my worth in God, not productivity. 

Both of these seasons are hard, because they force you to grow. Even if you didn't know you needed it. Worse yet, you're apt to be jealous of everyone in the opposite season. Homesick pilgrims will long for the safety and comfort of the monastery, while stir-crazy monks will covet the adventure of pilgrimage. You may even find it easier to determine your season by what you're craving, rather than what's actually happening. But here's the kicker: despite what you want, you need to find a way to embrace the season. 

Embracing your season doesn't mean that you'll enjoy it. It doesn't even mean that you'll understand why it's happening or what you're supposed to be getting out of it. Embracing your season simply means trusting God to do the work of that season in you. And letting him do it. 

Rather than envying others or fighting against it, the best way to get through a season is to focus on how God will use it for good—as His word promises. Look for the blessings. Pray for the revelations. Be open to whatever change God wants to make in your heart. Trust that, whatever it is, it will be good.  

This is why I chose to name the seasons after pilgrims and monks. Both the pilgrim and the monk have to keep their eyes on God to get through. The pilgrim needs God's strength and the hope that the destination will be good. The monk needs God's presence to give his isolation and asceticism meaning. Without God, they're just a nomad and a hermit. But with him, they have purpose. Their situations permeate their hearts. 

No matter what season we're in—or even if we're between seasons—we need God's presence to make our situations transformational. I don't know about you, but I tend to be pretty stubborn and thick-headed. I don't grow on my own. I need a catalyst. So I've learned to be grateful for the seasons God gives me, which never fail to shake me up and spur me on. I've learned to befriend people in opposite seasons, encouraging them and learning from them, rather than just envying them. And I've learned to love my inner pilgrim and monk, who have lead me through so many transformations. 

Friends, these seasons don't last forever, but they can leave quite a mark on our spirits. I hope that you will learn to embrace your inner pilgrim and monk, and trust in the God who never calls them out without purpose. 

He will see you through the season.