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. 

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) 

Last week, I took a break from blogging and shipped off to Greece with some friends from the school. We spent most of our time in Thessaloniki, walking along the sea and stuffing ourselves with delicious Greek food—which was exactly as delightful as it sounds—but first we stopped at Philippi. If you're the Bible-reading sort, you may remember Philippi from Paul's missionary journey through Greece, and later, his letter to the Philippians. 

The ruins of Philippi were incredible; you could even see the jail where God sent an earthquake to free Paul and Silas. But my favorite part was actually outside the city, down toward the river. 

This is where Paul met Lydia, a businesswoman and a "worshipper of God." This is where Lydia decided to follow Jesus and be baptized. 

There's an orthodox church here, with bright frescos and mosaics. When I stepped inside, I noticed something was unusual. There were pictures of women—Lydia, the other women from the river, Mary—all over the place. It startled me to see so many people of my own gender depicted in a church. 

Here, outside the city, their stories took center stage. Their faith was honored. 

Below the church, the river where Lydia was baptized flowed serenely through the trees. A baptistry had been built there, so others could follow in her footsteps. As I sat there, Lydia's story came alive. I could imagine the Philippian women leaving the bustle of the city behind and gathering at this river like it was their own private sanctuary. And Paul, too, was looking for a quiet place to pray. In Acts, we usually see him going into a city and heading straight for the synagogue to preach. But on that particular day, he headed outside the city gates. 

It was there, outside, that the Philippian church began. Starting with one woman who believed. Lydia immediately invited Paul to her home, and then later (after that prison incident) she did it again. Except this time there was a whole church gathering there. 

We don't know much about Lydia, but certainly she was generous, hospitable, and savvy. Probably pretty influential as well. After her encounter with Paul, she found a place to use all of these gifts, and the church thrived. 

As I sat by the river, I felt the Holy Spirit stirring inside me. In all of our lives, there are times when we feel on the outside of things, but for me, this season has been particularly obscure. As a woman in the Balkans, I'm often pushed to the fringes. As a writer, I'm usually alone at home, working outside the structure and social life of an office. As an expat, I am literally outside of my city, my country, and my culture every single day. 

I am, like Lydia, a woman outside the city gates. My life is good—successful even—but I know that I will never fully fit the city norms. I'm always slightly outside, on the fringes. 

In that moment, though, the Holy Spirit reminded me that God loves going to the fringes. He led Paul outside the city to find Lydia, because he wanted her specifically to help build his church. Before that, Jesus was always wandering off grid, choosing locations and people that shocked the powerful. 

And on this Good Friday, Jesus went outside the city gates to die. So that all of us outsiders would be brought back into the family of God, where we are our most useful and most loved selves. 

God loves the outsider. He loves using our unique gifts and perspectives. He loves showing us that, in Christ, we can belong. Like Lydia, we can build something that will last forever and live stories that will be told for centuries. Long after the city of Philippi was burned and abandoned, Lydia's work in the kingdom of God lives on. Her story is still told in the Bible and etched on church walls. 

What happened on the fringe didn't stay there. God turned it into the main event. 

If today, you find yourself on the fringes: take heart. God sees where you are, and he sees who you are. He is coming to meet you, to bring you into belonging.  

You're already in his favorite spot, down by the river, outside the city. 

A few weeks ago, I taught my husband how to bake a cake. A beautiful, from-scratch chocolate cake. It turned out perfect—rich and moist—and Sam was a natural in the kitchen. I couldn't believe that this was his first non-box-mix cake. Moreover, I couldn't believe I'd never included him in the kitchen before. Over the seven years we've known each other, I've probably made a hundred cakes, but Sam hasn't been involved in the creation of any of them. 

Finally, that exclusion has been rectified. But I didn't anticipate what it might do to him. 

My husband became a church lady. 

Later that week, my friend asked me to make a salad for church. Not everyone can afford to eat out after the service, so we often put together a potluck. "We" usually meaning the church ladies. The women who have mastered cooking, cleaning, and childcare. The women who spend their time and energy on the hidden details, so that other people can do the public work. 

Like a good church lady, I was prepared to say yes to making food, even though I was beyond tired that day. I believe in hospitality. I believe in providing food for neighbors and friends. I believe that it's an important factor in church unity and fellowship. I don't love making salads, and I don't have limitless energy to buy and chop vegetables, but it's generally a sacrifice I'm willing to make for my community. 

As I gathered the energy to cook, Sam did something unusual: he volunteered to make the salad. He told me to do something else with the hours I would have spent on it. He told me to write, to rest. He would take care of it. 

And the next week, he did it again. 

Not because I was tired again. Not to be a hero. But because he wanted to be a part of the hospitality. 

This is what I love about Sam: he recognizes the importance of the little things. He knows that a salad isn't just a salad. It's an opportunity to love and bless. It's a reason for people to gather, to get close. For some, it might be the difference between feeling welcome or not, a part of the church or not. The Bible often encourages us to practice hospitality, because it makes a difference in our relationships. Once someone's been in your home and eaten your food, you're no longer just acquaintances. You're part of a community. 

Hospitality is transformation work. And it's for everyone. My husband knows this. 

Around the world, from Asia to America, we've seen church ladies take up the brunt of this work. It's the residue of gender roles: women tend to know how to do these things, because they've been taught the art. In some places, though, it's the only thing church ladies are allowed to do. So they put everything they have—all their love and talent—into those salads. Like me with my cakes, they guard their territory, because this is their excellent offering to God. It's their place to shine. 

But what if we all became church ladies? What if we all learned to make cakes or salads? 

I often think of the story of Martha and Mary. When Jesus was at their home, Martha felt obligated to stay in the kitchen and cook. That would have been her traditional role, her usual offering. But Mary gummed everything up by sitting at Jesus' feet, learning from him in the posture of a male disciple. Crazier yet, Jesus praised her for it. He told Martha it was time to get out of the kitchen, time to rest from the work and learn something new. 

For everyone, there is a time to serve and a time to learn. Both are so valuable. 

Cake-baking was my territory for a long time. It was a safe way for me to serve, and I often got praised for it. But I believe God wants more from me than just this. He wants hospitality in our community, but he doesn't always want it from me. Sometimes he wants me to spend my time doing other things: reading, writing, learning. Sometimes he wants Sam to step into service mode instead. 

It only took a few cooking lessons and a little pride-swallowing to make this possible. Now we have one more person in the kitchen. And one more liberated church lady.   

If you're burnt out on being the perfect church lady (no matter your gender), I would encourage you to ask someone if they want to learn to cook (or whatever you do to serve). You are the bearer of important skills: pass them around. 

And if you're on the other side—if you don't often serve in the small places—get in the kitchen and try your hand at it. You might, like my husband, make a better salad than me. And you might really like it. 

Together, we can be the church, learning and serving side by side. Transforming a broken world. 

Two years ago, God called me to write. He said take a year, write a book. Write a book about marriage. And thus began a long season—far longer than the year I expected—of walking in the dark, trying desperately to follow his call and having absolutely no clue how.  

To be honest, for most of that time, I didn't have a heart for the book. I worked towards it, writing manuscript after manuscript, but I didn't have a passion for the topic. I read books about marriage, talked about it, and grappled with it in my own life. I prayed hundreds of times for God to show me why I was writing about it. But for a long time, there was quiet. Keep working, was all he said. 

So I kept working, even though I knew it would look a lot like failing. Stumbling around blind, listening and feeling and smelling for the promised land. Knowing it could be just around the corner, or miles and miles away.

It's only been this year, this beautiful fresh 2014, that I've had any revelation about why I'm writing this book. I see now that being abroad has made our marriage untraditional and untied to American culture. I see how healthy it's been to be away, building a foundation in a hard environment. Most importantly, I see where my strength lies: in holding up a mirror to my country and culture. In giving perspective. 

Through keeping me in the dark, God equipped me to do this. If I had known anything about marriage when he first called me to write, I would have just written that. It would have been boring, and similar to every other marriage book out there. But thankfully I didn't know a thing. I wasn't even married at the time. I had to go through it all, and I had to pay attention, processing and questioning everything. I had to discover for myself what made a marriage here in Kosovo any different from one in America. Without God's direction, I might not have noticed. I certainly wouldn't have seen the need to write and share it with the world. 

But now, I do. Beyond that, I see the need to walk out God's call, even when we don't understand it. 

Friends, this is one of the things that makes Christianity so hard. We can easily believe that God wants what's best for us, but when that plan involves keeping us in the dark for a time, we're quick to jump ship. We refuse to trust that God will come through. We long for control, knowledge, and a solid plan.  

Unfortunately for our prides, God doesn't work on our terms. He works with faith and obedient hearts. In the Bible, we get a retrospective look at so many of his plans—consider Abraham, Esther, and Paul—but today, we're mostly in the middle of them. We don't yet know the end of our stories. God might throw a curveball into our carefully controlled lives. Today's failure might be a stepping stone to tomorrow's success. Things will inevitably turn out different than we imagined them. 

We can only continue walking through the dark, trusting that the Light will come through. 

I cannot stress enough the importance of being obedient to God, of walking forward in your calling (i.e. showing up where God put you and doing the work) even if you can't see where any of it is leading. There is so much blessing in this path. There is so much to learn as you lean on Jesus, and so much excess pride to be scraped away. And always, there is the 'aha' moment at the end, where God shows you just how good his plan was all along. 

Lately, these revelations have been hitting me right and left. I simply cannot believe how well God has orchestrated this, and that he chose to use me—little unqualified me—to write for him. It's incredible. 

God always wants to use you—to grow you, to bless the people around you, and to bring himself glory. Ask him where he wants you to go, who he wants you to love, how he wants you to work. Then, go and do it. Even if it doesn't make sense. Even if you're groping around in the dark for a while. Because God chooses "what the world considers foolish to shame the wise...and what the world considers weak to shame the strong" (1 Cor. 1:27). 

Surely he will bless our foolish attempts, our weak efforts. Surely he will show himself strong, his plans wise. 

May you trust Him, 
Liz 

Some days, as I'm walking into town, I have this surreal "I live in Kosovo!" moment. Like a fish who's just remembered she's in water, I look up at the mosques, smell the doner kebab, and suddenly remember what an extraordinary and strange life this is. 

We've been in Prishtina for a year and a half, though it's felt so much longer. In a few months, we won't live here anymore. We'll move back to the States for a while, and then on to new opportunities. It's just now starting to sink in that all of this—all that's become so familiar—will be just another dot on the map of places I've lived. 

Like all of those places, Kosovo has been so much more.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what living here has done to me. Living abroad always marks you, in good ways and bad. Here, I've learned how to ask if you're tired in Albanian. I know (too well) all the symptoms of chronic fatigue and chronic stress. I know exactly where to step to avoid the potholes and loose stones on the sidewalks. I'm no longer afraid to wear bright lipstick. 

I've seen patriarchy taken to new levels, both in the culture and the church, and I've learned how destructive it can be. I know that a good macchiato can cure most ailments. I've learned how to be patient when the water shuts off right as I'm shampooing my hair, when the [insert anything here] breaks, and when everyone waits until the last minute to make plans. My shoes instinctively come off at the front door. 

I've learned that work isn't everything. I know how to sit with people and not try to fix anything. I've learned how to write when all I want to do is sleep, and how to lay it aside and take that nap. I know how to choose the most beautiful pomegranate from the market. I've learned how to breathe despite the smog.

I hope that as much as this place has changed me, I've done something to change it too. For a while I wasn't sure that I had. I stay inside a lot, writing and cooking. I don't have the obvious influence that Sam does at the school. My ministry is fuzzy, unscheduled. My accomplishments mostly unremarkable. 

Then I looked at our kitchen. I haven't intentionally changed much about our apartment. Since we only planned two years here, I let things slide: the ugly bedspread, the Ottoman furniture, the shiny green blinds. I could live with them. Yet, over time, this place has very much become the Steere home. Pictures got tacked to the refrigerator. Houseplants added to the shelves. Signs of our life—our scorch marks, stains, and scattered papers—accumulated everywhere. 

Just by living here, we changed this space. 

We prayed in this house, sang in this house, and loved people in this house. And in Kosovo, too, we did these things. We lived our daily, normal lives here, and that added up. Mostly in ways we hardly noticed. 

But as I think about leaving, as I take a step back from what's become normal, I realize that it all mattered. Even the days I didn't want to live here. Even the days I didn't accomplish what I wanted to. The slow days, the hard days. Throughout all of them, I was still here. I still showed up. And God, in his brilliant goodness, made it amount to something. Because he lives in me and through me, and he puts his little touches on everything. He makes all things beautiful and useful. 

Your life, too, is this way. Where you live and who you love matters. It adds up. In our bubble of normalcy, we don't always see it, but the everyday stuff can be extraordinary. Especially when our lives are fully surrendered to God, and we walk in obedience and intimacy with him. 

I hope you'll join me today in taking a few steps back and seeing what God has been making from your everyday. I hope you'll see the spaces you've changed, the people you've loved, and even the way your nation is different because you showed up. 

May you continue to live well wherever you are, 
Liz 

PS: I'll tell you more about our future plans soon. It's an exciting time for us, and God is opening up some very cool doors! Please pray for guidance in this season, and the faith to walk out whatever he calls us to. 

In the past few months, Sam and I have found ourselves embraced by a church in Sunny Hill—a Prishtina neighborhood that is, in fact, on a rather sunny hill. It's the kind of church where you don't get home until 5pm, because there's lunch and coffee and conversation together long after the sermon is over. We really love the community and how easy it is to be ourselves with them. And I really mean ourselves: our full, messy, not-always-okay selves. This past Sunday, someone asked me how I was doing, and I broke down right there in the sandwich line. 

The funny thing about a good church community is that it allows all sorts of baggage to come up and be dealt with. In that particular moment, it was a word spoken over me by a fellow Christian telling me that I couldn't have full inclusion in the Church (the capital C, all believers everywhere Church) because of my gender. I'd been trying to brush it off for days, but it came up full force. My church family comforted me and discussed the word with me, pointing out the untruths in it. Best of all, they reminded me that I wasn't alone in it. Everybody has had words thrown at them.  

Especially (and unfortunately) in the Church. 

Today, I'd like to do for you what my church family did for me. I'd like to talk about church words that hurt. Words that may not be inherently bad and may not be meant to hurt, but words that nonetheless wound us. Words that sometimes make us want to walk away from church. Words that we need to be careful with. 

Let me be clear: I believe in forgiveness and rooting out all bitterness and offense in our hearts. But I also believe that that's a process, and we can help each other through it by telling the truth. So, here goes. 

I've been in a lot of different churches in my life, ranging vastly in tradition and doctrine. Somewhere in the midst of these Sundays, I learned that because I was a girl, I had to be submissive. In some churches, this meant I wouldn't see a woman speak in front of the congregation. In others, it meant that when the pastor called me "sugar" (which is exactly as gross as it sounds), I wasn't supposed to say anything. 

Submission is a huge trigger word for me, instantly forming knots in my stomach. It's funny, because I actually believe strongly in the concept of submission. I believe in humility. I believe in surrendering ourselves to God, and even to earthly authorities. But the word submission, for me, carries so much baggage. It's like hearing someone tell me to "shut up, already," because that's how I've heard it used time and time again. 

In a similar vein, there's the word helpmeet. In the Biblical creation narrative, Eve is described as Adam's ezer kenegdo, which many translate as "helper" or "helpmeet." While this is actually a powerful title for her (ezer is otherwise used to describe God's help and military aid), the word somehow came to mean a Christian wife who cooks, cleans, and generally serves her husband.  

In my life, the word helpmeet has been used almost exclusively to discourage me from pursuing meaningful work. When I expressed the difficulty of trying to write a book and do ministry in Kosovo, a number of well-meaning people suggested that perhaps my real calling was to be a helpmeet to my husband. And nothing else. This really hurt me, because I know my calling is to write. I heard God really clearly on that one. But once the word helpmeet enters the scene, it's like a ton of bricks, guilting me back into the kitchen to serve and pulling me away from the work I truly love. 

Purity is another tricky word. The concept is good—I certainly want to be pure of heart (Matt 5:8)—but the implied definition is often murkier. When the church talks about purity, it's usually talking about sexual purity, and specifically about the young singles. As someone who was once a young single, I can tell you it's like having someone constantly breathing down your neck, whispering, "Don't screw up!" I know so many girls (and some guys too) who developed severe anxiety over the issue, convinced that they were going to mess it up and then be (gasp!) impure forever. Even I felt some of this and wore a purity ring throughout my teenage years to assuage the adults' concerns about my sexual status. Of course, that didn't stop people from interrogating me about it right up until my wedding. 

The wonderful thing about Biblical purity is that it comes from the cross and the cross alone. And we will never run out of it, even if we screw up. There is always room for repentance, always room for growing in righteousness. I really wish we talked about purity of heart more often, because it applies to everyone in the church, and single folks need a break from the usual scare tactics. 

And finally, here's a word that's liable to make us all squirm: Sin. Obviously, this isn't a word we can stop using anytime soon. It's pretty crucial to the gospel. But it's often used in less wholesome forms, intended to wound certain groups of people. Sin actually means to "miss the mark" or fall short of God's perfect plan. We all do it in a million ways each day. But when we use the word sin against groups of people we don't like or "don't agree with" (to put it more kindly), we usually mean it more harshly than that. Often, we go so far as to imply that their particular sin is damning. Which is just not how sin works. All sin is forgivable, and no sin will send you to hell except the sin of rejecting God. That's it. 

For those of you not in the Church (or perhaps keeping your distance for now), I'm sorry that we're such a mess sometimes. I invite you to share the words that have hurt you or pushed you away. I promise you that there are safe communities out there where you can be yourself, and I very much hope that you will find one.  

For those of you in the Church, I ask you to choose your words carefully. I ask you to consider not just what you are saying, but what you might be implying as well. Empathize with those of us who've had bad church experiences, who've been belittled or abused by Christian-y words. Help us to move away from bitterness and towards feeling included and accepted in this big crazy family of ours. I have so much hope that this can be done. Which is precisely why I shared today. 

Let's be the wildly-loving, wildly-inclusive Church that Jesus called us to be. And may His spirit help us get there. 

With love,
Liz

Perhaps it's the Lenten season, or the number of people I know awaiting a miracle, but I've been thinking a lot lately about waiting for God. Waiting for him to show up and reveal what's been going on all along. To work all things together for good.  

I could tell a lot of stories about God showing up in big ways. How the terrible suffering of the cross turned out to be the hope of the world. How, in my own life, God turned the tragedy of losing a parent into opportunities I never could have imagined or asked for. How, around the world, I have seen sickness healed and hearts mended.  

But today, I want to tell a quieter story. Because life often happens this way: almost imperceptibly turning lovely. 

A few years ago, I lived in a Buddhist monastery in rural India. I was the only Christian among hundreds of pilgrims come to see the Mahabodhi Temple—the site of the Buddha's enlightenment and the birthplace of that religion. Often I would go to the temple and walk around the main stupa (see photo below), watching the people chant or meditate, wondering what was happening in their hearts. I'd never been in a place that was so devoid of the God I knew, who came to his people freely rather than making them work for it. 

The longer I was there, the more desperately I wanted God to come and turn things around.  

Early one morning, before the sun was up, I went to the temple to walk and pray. The usual crowd was there: monks in their maroon robes, pilgrims clothed in white, and everyone hushed in meditation. I circled the stupa, trying to find words for the deep hunger in my spirit. Finally, I began to pray simply that God would bring his presence, and that the temple would become a dwelling place for him, if even for a moment.  

In my life up to that point, I'd been taught to pray for needs specifically. Heal this person. Save that person. But in that moment, I just wanted God to be there. With me. With us. 

The really crazy thing is that he came. 

I was walking past the prayer wheels, still in darkness, when all of a sudden the sun rose. Light broke over the temple. The birds awoke in their trees and starting chirping loudly. Within minutes of praying, the whole place literally went from darkness to light, silence to singing. And my heart was burning with joy and satisfaction, knowing that my God was there and had answered me. 

What I love about Jesus—and what I have never seen in all my time of studying other faiths—is that he shows himself when we cry out for him. He doesn't promise to give us everything we want, but he does promise us that we will never be alone. We always have his Word and his Spirit, and sometimes we even get a little miracle to remind us he's there. 

This Lent, instead of giving up chocolate or coffee, I felt the Lord ask me simply to remember his presence each day. To sit and be joyful in it, knowing that he's closer than I can imagine. To remember that at the end of the story, he will turn all suffering and hardship into blessing. 

I guess, in a way, I'm giving up loneliness and hopelessness, even in their smallest amounts. Because even missionaries need be retaught the ABCs of God sometimes. Because even we get scared when the darkness comes. Because we are still waiting for God to make all things right.   

But praise God for his infinite light, for his peaceful and mighty presence. 

Even in our waiting, he is already there. 

May you see him beside you, 
Liz 

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 

After traveling through the night, Jeremiah and Katie met me in the Prishtina airport Tuesday morning, sleepily dragging their suitcases behind them. Kosovo is their seventh location in five months. God told them to set out east and encourage churches along the way like the apostle Paul. They've done just that, jumping from Dallas to New York City, London to Madrid. After a week with us, they'll fly to India and wherever else doors open for them. Theirs is a journey of faith, of believing God's word and going for it.  

When I sat down to interview them for Awaken Magazine, Jeremiah told me, "The great adventure for today, especially for Christians, is being obedient to the Lord completely."  

I couldn't agree more.

Almost a year ago, I wrote a blog on leaving it all behind—your country, your family, your security—to be obedient to God. Then, we were very much like the Gibsons: following a word from God to GO, with almost no financial support and very little clue what we were doing. As I spoke to them about their travels, their marriage, their struggles, they reminded me why we do this: it's hard, but it's fulfilling like nothing else. 

We talked about the joys of working side-by-side with your spouse, the endlessly-surprising ways God puts people in our path, the power of praying light into a dark nation, and how none of this would be possible if we'd stayed home. 

Friends, I'm going to say it again: if God tells you to do something scary—write a book, move to Kosovo, go on a round-the-world journey, help a stranger, whatever—just do it. Go, and don't look back. Go, and keep listening. Because the first step inevitably leads to a second, a third, and then a life-long journey. 

Because God is faithful, and one way or another, he'll keep putting ground beneath your feet. 

It's been so encouraging to spend time with the Gibsons, because they're living proof that where God calls, he makes a way. When I talk to people about pursuing difficult callings, they often tell me that my life is exceptional or that it wouldn't work out for them because of x, y, or z reason. As I look at Jeremiah and Katie, I am filled afresh with hope that I am not the exception. I am God's normal. He's interested in providing for everyone the way he lovingly provides for me. He's willing to give adventures to anyone whose heart is set on following him. 

I hope that whatever your calling is, you would look around and see that it is possible. 

It's possible to leave everything behind—all security, all familiar—and yet be greatly blessed. Abraham did it. Jesus' disciples did it. And even today, we are invited into that story. Jesus looks us in the eyes and asks each one of us, "Will you follow me?"

I hope that today, and every day, our answer will be yes. 

If you want to know more about the Gibson's yes, check out their blog Gibsons Go Global. Later, I'll have a feature on their faith journey in Awaken Magazine, but I'll post a link once that gets published.

Also, if you want to send them to another nation, you can do so here. Because really, how often do we get to send someone to Cambodia? It's wild.  

May you walk (and run and skip and fly) with the God who loves you, and in whom you can always trust,
Liz