I'm the kind of person who likes to be in control: work hard, make plans, be prepared. Unfortunately for me, there's nothing like a trans-Atlantic move to remind you how totally not-in-control you are. By the end of it, you're just thankful to have arrived in one piece. 

As I contemplate the move, what I'm most aware of is our total neediness. We'll be arriving with worn-out clothes, bodies, and bank accounts. We'll stay with family, and mostly rely on them for food and transportation. We'll need a lot of emotional care and support as we process the transition and the past two years. 

We will, in short, be those people that nobody wants to be: the needy friends. We'll cry at inopportune times. We sometimes won't have the energy or money to do normal American activities. And on top of all that, we'll be asking for support for our French scouting trip, which may seem really unfair to you (and that's fine). 

A couple years ago, if someone had called me "needy," it would have been the worst insult possible. I'd built my life around being independent, a giver, a worker. Like most Americans, I wanted people to need me, but I certainly didn't want to need anyone else. I didn't even like the idea of getting married, let alone getting married and going to live abroad on support (ha!), but somehow God convinced me to do it all. 

And it changed everything. 

I was watching this interview with Heidi Baker—a missionary to Mozambique and one of my heroes of faith—and she just smiled as she said, "I feel like the neediest person on the planet." She went on to talk about getting needy before God, being poor in spirit, and crying out for help from our Father. I felt like someone kicked me in the gut, it was so abhorrent to me to think about being needy. I just wanted God to work out our monthly support, make it all work smoothly. But that's not how life in Kosovo has gone. We've had to wait on God and trust in him a whole lot more than we'd like to. 

It has, of course, been the best thing in the world for us. 

Being needy has made us recognize our true relationship with God, which is absolute dependence. It's made us lean on our communities and actually let people help us, which (surprise!) people really like to do. It's made us realize that we cannot be totally self-sufficient, and even if we could, it would be a sad, isolate kind of life.   

I know that neediness doesn't have the best reputation. Maybe you think about your needy ex-boyfriend or people who've been on welfare too long. But the truth of the matter is that we're all needy, in lots of ways. We need God for our very life and breath, the health of our bodies and spirits. We certainly need other people, particularly when our carefully-constructed lives crumble. Even if we're the hardest workers in the world, providing for ourselves all by ourselves, we still need good infrastructure and political stability to pull off our little one-man shows.

Everything we accomplish takes divine intervention and a village of support, whether we see it or not. And I, for one, see it now. I can't do a lot about being needy. I can't (in good conscience) deny God's call and go make a pile of money so that I never have to ask for anything again. But I can be thankful for the people who haven't begrudged me for asking. For those who have helped us, in big ways and small. For those who have upheld us, understood us, and encouraged us. Thank you all so, so much for letting us be the needy friends. I hope that, at some point, we'll get to bless you as much as you've blessed us. 

Today, all I have to give is this advice: let yourself be needy. It's not as bad as you think. Really. 

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. 

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. 

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, we won't be living in Kosovo much longer. At the end of June, we'll pack up our lives and head for the States, where we'll spend a few months with family and friends. Then, we'll head back out. 

This time, to France. 

In the fall, Sam and I will take a 2-3 month scouting trip to Southern France, where we have several contacts. We'll spend time serving with and getting to know different ministries there, in hopes of eventually joining the community long term. 

This is not what either of us expected. I, in particular, wanted to move somewhere gritty and non-Western. We considered work in Turkey, South Africa, Northern Africa, and a slew of other places before recognizing where God was really calling us: the beautiful French Riviera. Of course, the spiritual atmosphere of this place isn't pretty—with very few followers of Jesus—but the looks of it certainly are. This made me, the proverbial martyr, suspicious. It was too good to be true. 

But our too-good-to-be-true God was persistent in his call. 

Last summer, Sam and I met with some friends who had recently been ministering in Southern France and had wonderful stories from their time there. Though we were praying for future direction, they were connected with an organization I never thought we'd work with. I smiled at their stories, but didn't remotely consider it.

Despite my stubbornness, France began to haunt me. God often uses symbols to get my attention, and this particular time it was lavender. Lavender showed up everywhere I turned: growing wild, clipped in vases, bottled in the spice aisle of the grocery store. Every time I saw it, I heard the Lord's voice whispering to me: What if I send you somewhere beautiful, Liz?

I've never been particularly good at receiving gifts, particularly ones I know I don't deserve. This question dug deep into my heart, where I wanted so badly to put in my dues with hard ministry in hard places. But, for about the millionth time, God's grace overwhelmed my inner workhorse. I will go wherever you send me, Lord. 

From there, things only got clearer. With very little effort on my part, I soon had an abundance of contacts all over France. I emailed with a few people, and every one of them seemed just perfect for us. Doors opened everywhere I turned. 

Yet, I had one last request for God: that Sam would receive a call to France independent of mine. I hadn't told him about any of this. I didn't want to sway him with my excitement, and if he felt called to France on his own, I would know for sure that that was our next home. Sure enough, after a few months of prayer, Sam told me he felt drawn to France, and we began excitedly discussing our options there.  

That night, I had a crazy dream. In it, my friend handed me a pair of earrings that said "Moveable" and "Feast." When I woke up, I knew the phrase was a reference to Hemingway, but I didn't know what it meant. I looked it up, and sure enough: "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." On top of this, A Moveable Feast is the title of Hemingway's memoir of being an expat writer in France. How fitting, seeing as I'm working on my own expat memoir! This encouraged me a great deal, because I've struggled to write in Kosovo more than in any other place. I'm very much looking forward to a new season—and a new location—for my work.

During our Christmas break, Sam and I took a train to Paris, hoping for more clarity on where exactly we should go. Though we'd both been thinking about Paris and other northern cities, we were surprised by the gorgeous train ride through the South. We both agreed that it was our favorite part of the whole trip. Soon after, we received the name and contact information of a British woman working alone in Grasse (where they just so happen to grow a lot of lavender) and felt strongly that we needed to connect with her. At the same time, she was praying for people to come, so it was a perfect match! She will be one of our top priorities during our scouting trip. 

And finally, since God loves bringing things full circle, he has drawn us back to the first organization—the one I thought I'd never work with. Sam and I both had a huge change of heart about it and suddenly felt compelled to contact them. They have offered us a place to stay, for as long as we need. This is huge blessing and answer to prayer, and we're very excited to join their community.  

Now, we are focusing on finishing our time in Kosovo well, learning French, and being open to God's continual guidance for the future. We will continue to update you on our plans, particularly this summer as we fundraise and solidify our travel itinerary. 

We appreciate your prayers for this time of transition, and I hope that this will serve as encouragement to all of you who are seeking God's guidance for your future. He speaks to us in so many ways—people, symbols, voices, dreams, signs, feelings—and I believe that he will show you where he wants you to be. Whether it's the French Riviera or where you're already standing. 

Love, 
Liz (and Sam) 

This week, I've been inspired by a series happening over at the blog Momastery. The series is called Sacred Scared, and in it, prominent Christian writers have been sharing their deepest insecurities. The idea is that everyone is messy, even successful people. Like us, they feel not smart enough, not attractive enough, and not superwoman enough.  

As a young writer who frequently has no idea what she's doing, I found this both comforting and challenging. On one hand, I'm glad to know I'm not alone. On the other, I'm a little mad that apparently I won't outgrow or out-succeed my insecurities. Apparently, I have to make nice with them. Tame them with light and love, rather than shoving them into the closet.  

So today, I'm going to share my biggest insecurity. The one that Satan most often uses against me, the one that most often keeps me from stepping into God's full plan for me. 
 
My biggest insecurity is that I'm too intense, and I ask too much of people. 

In high school, I was a perfectionist, and an opinionated one at that. I distinctly remember a good friend of mine turning to me in a moment of frustration and asking, "How does Sam put up with you?" 

Truth is, I have no idea how he does. I'm demanding. I'm obsessive. I care about everything. A lot. Some nights we stay up long past a reasonable teacher's bedtime because I need to vent about feminism or theology or someone's emotional baggage. You know, all those good 1 am topics. 

And, as my college roommates (and suitemates and classmates) can attest, I absolutely cannot stay out of people's business. If someone within a one mile radius of me has emotional baggage, I will find it, poke at it until I see tears, and then attempt to counsel that person to freedom. Worst of all, I will enjoy it immensely. I once helped with an inner healing ministry, and we did these day-long intensive events. People would be on the floor, bawling their eyes out, and I could barely contain my excitement. During one event, a woman came up to me and asked me how, with so much pain around me, could I possibly be smiling. I just shrugged and told her I liked the freedom that comes after the pain. But I walked away feeling like a freak. 

See, it's all well and good to care about people, but there's a point where it gets messy. And I run about five miles past that point. I insist that people become their best selves, which is great in theory, but really really uncomfortable in real life. I've ruined more than one friendship over it. 

Like many people, my biggest insecurity comes from my greatest strength: my empathy. I love being an empathetic person, and I even like being an intense person. But I am terrified of overextending these qualities. I'm afraid that I'll push everyone so hard that they'll abandon me. I'm even afraid that I'll push myself so hard that I'll self-destruct. 

When Satan whispers these half-truths in my ear, it completely shuts me down. I back away from helping people. I people-please when I should be challenging. I keep silent about issues that matter, afraid of being labeled a rebel-rouser or a Jezebel. I hide in my closet of shame. 

The only way I've found to combat this is to bring these lies into the light. I confess the ways I've let them derail me, and ask God and others to forgive my lack of action. Confession isn't really in vogue in the church anymore, but I always find it freeing. When the words roll off my tongue (or today, my keyboard), I feel Jesus turning everything upside down again, making darkness into light, weakness into strength. When I'm honest with my community, it builds unity. We get to say, "Me too," or pray for each other or just hug it out. 

It takes some guts and faith, but I think we can all find a safe place to confess our insecurities. For some, that's in our church or small group. For others, it's just with Jesus. For some of you, it could be right here in the comment section of this blog. But wherever and however we do it, we can always find ample light and grace in our savior Jesus, who bore all sin and sickness (including those flaws we're ashamed of and all the ways we don't measure up) to the cross, defeating them and rising up in us a new person—fully free and fully enough. 

May you find that identity, and may you boldly pursue the life God has called you to live. In the light, away from shame, and buoyed up by a community of grace.   

With much love (and hopefully not too much pushing), 
Liz 

Every once in a while, being a writer is as fun as it sounds. This week, I was developing a cookie recipe for Awaken Magazine. Long before I sat down at my computer to write the piece, I was in my kitchen making a giant mess. I had to bake about a hundred cookies—different kinds, and then different variations on my top choice—before I finalized my recipe. 

What I ended up with was something delicious: a chewy brownie cookie. But the process of getting there was harder than I expected. Every ingredient had to be just the right ratio. One extra egg or tablespoon of cocoa, and it became an entirely different cookie. I had to fail a bunch of times before I got it right. All for one pretty simple cookie. 

This is the side of creativity (and life) that nobody likes. It's why I get all squirmy when someone asks me how my writing is going. The truth is that there are always a lot of bad batches along the way. Cookies and manuscripts I'd rather toss in the trash than share. There's a lot of failure that goes on behind the scenes in my job. And I've learned that's not such a bad thing. 

Actually, it's probably the best medicine God's ever given me. We live in a culture that's all about getting it right, and more importantly, being right. This culture, unfortunately, isn't relegated to one nation or religious group. It's everywhere. Sam's Kosovar students are often at the point of physical arguments over rightness. If my Facebook newsfeed is any indication, Americans are on a similar page. And if I hear one more Christian say, "The Bible clearly says _____" to defend their rightness, I might just cry.   

I know that I'm not always right. I have the failures to prove it. 

Honestly, it's a relief not to have to get it right. I used to be a big overachiever, a know-it-all, and a terrible Scrabble loser (let's get out the dictionary!). Then God told me to be a writer (a.k.a. a professional fail-er), and though I kicked and screamed through a lot of it, I eventually found my way out of the valley of perfectionism and onto the mountain of grace. 

Whew, and amen. 

Outside all the achieving and being right, there's so much peace. When we're no longer competing for our own glory, zinging each other with facts and verses, we can gaze upon the One who's had the glory the whole time. The one who's been right the whole time. The one who's already finished the job, achieved it all: Jesus. 

I get along so much better when I let God do the working and when I let Him have all the knowledge. Because even when I fail, his glory and his power don't diminish. His plans don't stop with my mistakes. They march right ahead, working with me and in me. And as I surrender to humility, they can do more and more. 

I don't wish failure upon anyone, but I do pray that we would see our limitations, and that we would learn to trust the God who says, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." 

In His grace,   
Liz 

PS: If you're still drooling over the cookies from the beginning (I know I am), the Brownie Cookie recipe will be up on Awaken's website soon!