: one year later

The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad. 

Psalm 126:3

One year ago, I shared my story of sexual abuse for the first time.

In that moment, it would've been impossible for me to understand the significance of telling the truth- impossible to grasp the amount of change and grief and growth I would experience. For nine months, I cried and yelled at God, then cried about yelling at God until my eyes were swollen shut. I started going to therapy. I lost relationships with half of my family. I gained a new family with my church. I took school seriously. I fell in love with the book of Lamentations. I got really good at making cupcakes. I stopped reading my Bible. I started reading my Bible. I watched more movies than you can imagine. I apologized. I forgave. I listened to fifty-two David Platt sermons. Then I decided he was too heavy and listened to Louie Giglio for a while. I dyed my hair 10 times. I wrote a few dozen songs, all of which have the same "BUT SERIOUSLY, JESUS, WHERE DID YOU GO?" theme. I memorized Psalm 139. I had good days, but mostly bad days, until my 22nd birthday happened and God lifted me out of the desert and threw me into the Pacific Ocean. I can't really explain what happened/ why my 22nd birthday marked a new season of life for me, it just did. Something changed and God brought me into a time of joy and laughter and rest. 

A few months after telling the truth, I wrote this prayer in my journal:

"Although I try to control you with rituals and disciplines, I pray that you'll provide for me mercifully simply because you are God and you are good. When I refuse to acknowledge and recognize you at work, I pray that you manifest yourself even more powerfully. Not because I am good, but because you are good. I pray for a moldable heart. For a pure, childlike heart. For humility and sensitivity, for a heart that pleases you. I pray that I desire you above success and acceptance and security and happiness. Not because I am good or deserve these things, but because you are good."

One year later, I praise God for answering these prayers. He delivered me from being enslaved to abuse, neglect, and acceptance. He is healing my heart. He gave my childlike eyes and a sensitive spirit. He has been faithful to me.... and not in the God-was-faithful-to-the-Israelites kind of way, but in the God-was-faithful-to-Savannah-Ellis kind of way.

One year later, I praise God for fulfilled promises and answered prayers.

He has done great things for me; I am glad.

: humility leads to joy (i think)

Not that everyone's been on the edge of their seats just waiting for me to write an update on my English adventures, but...

I wish that I could bottle up the last seven weeks and drink them like water. God has been immeasurably gracious to me and I wouldn't even know how to begin saying thanks. I know that I probably sound like an annoying hyperactive hamster, but it's really refreshing to be happy and not want to claw my eyeballs out (see all blog posts from 2012). 

Something God has been teaching me this summer is the relationship between humility and joy.* It's still a baby idea, but I've seen it worked out in two particular ways over the past few months:

1. The desire to control my life- past, present, or future- ultimately steals the joy of living a life controlled by Christ. And I know I feel really warm inside after reading verses like 1 Peter 5:7 (Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you) and Matthew 6**, but these passages are commands to unclench my hands, give over my burdens, and live humbly under the lordship of Christ. To cast my cares on God is to say, "You are able to handle my life, dreams, and future better than I am." 

There are oceans of joy available for those who will jump in the water instead of trying to tell the Captain how to steer the boat.

2. It takes humility to receive a gift from God without compulsively trying to pay him back. On a macro level, this is seen on the cross of Jesus Christ. It is an unmerited, undeserved, and un-repayable gift. Even still, many people spend their entire lives trying to re-earn a salvation that's already been bought because some part of them believes the cross was ultimately ineffective. On a smaller scale, this gift of grace is seen in the air we breathe or having bright blue eyes or getting a parking spot right next to the door or running into an old friend and laughing with them for hours and hours. It's humbling to think that God continues to lavish his children with gifts even though we could never, ever repay him.

There is joy to be found for the child that rips open his present on Christmas morning, hugs his father, and spends the rest of the day playing with it. Unfortunately, though, many of us opt to open the gift, say, "Father, how much do I owe you", and spend the rest of the day doing dishes in order to pay him back.

Once again, this is a baby idea and I'm still processing through it. Meaning, I might disagree with myself in two weeks. But it's interesting to think that humility is a wellspring of joy and pride is a thief of joy. I'm sure that someone who is smarter than me has already written a book about it, so if you know of one let me know.



*I'd even say this in relation to humility and happiness...but I know the word "happiness" has such a bad reputation nowadays. It's okay to be happy, though. Promise.

**Matthew 6 (Paraphrase, but go read it!): If God clothes the grass, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not clothe you, oh you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying "What will we eat or drink?"...your Heavenly Father knows you need them all.

: smoking pot at church on a Sunday afternoon

A few days ago, our team encountered a group of teenagers that listen to screamo music and dye their hair black and wear skull-patterned clothing and have piercings and tattoos everywhere. They drink and swear and smoke all sorts of things. Lots of them have babies. And criminal records. We’ve spent several days with them in the past while, listening to all the scary songs they want to play us and inhaling as much secondhand smoke our lungs can handle. We asked about their families and answered a billion questions about America. We’ve tried to show them that they are valuable and bring something to the table; that they have voices worth listening to.

Yesterday there was a huge cookout for all the churches in town. We invited our new friends to come and eat free food. Fashionably late, the first five trickled in, and before we knew it there were twenty teenagers sitting around us, cigarettes in hand. They kept reiterating, “We’re only here because there’s free food, you know…” but to my knowledge, none of them ate a bite the entire day.

One of the boys (we’ll call him B) looked across the way and saw a baptismal: “Can I baptize my bike? It’s got dirt on it” he said. The other boys snickered and looked at my face for a response. I just smiled and nodded my head because if you approached B two weeks ago and told him he’d be sitting on a church lawn listening to worship music and watching people get baptized on May 19^th, he would’ve laughed in your face. But for hours and hours, he sat there. Hungover, high and loved by God, he sat there.

It is similar to the famous tax collector, Zacchaeus, who, seeking something he did not fully understand, sat on the top of a tree to watch Jesus walk by. Despised by men, lost as anyone, and loved by God, he sat there. It was only a matter of time before Jesus looked up and said, “Hey you. Yes you. I’m going to your house today, so hurry up and come down here. I see you. I choose you.” People gasped and mumbled, “Can you believe Jesus is going to eat with that guy? If he only knew what Zacchaeus was doing last night...”

Knowing they had missed the point altogether, Jesus turned to the crowd and said, “Don’t you see? I came to seek and save the lost” (Luke 19:1-10).

Many times, I am guilty of trying to find semi-righteous people to share the Gospel with— people that have grown up in the church or at least know that doing drugs isn’t a good idea. I shy away from the really rough crowd because “people in the suburbs need Jesus, too.” But Jesus seemed to be on a different mission many times, choosing to disciple a bunch of misfits and criminals and punk-rock teenagers from England.

My new friend B, and the rest of his motley crew, are watching from a distance at the top of a sycamore tree. Our team is jumping and pointing and lifting up the name of Jesus, but God is the only one who can draw them to Himself. Please join with me in praying that our friends will hear Jesus’ call from the crowd: “Hey you. Yes you. I am going to your house today, so hurry up and come down here. I see you. I choose you.”

: how to get on an airplane even when you're afraid

(This post assumes the knowledge of my story that I shared last month. Here's the link to Part One in case you've not read it.)


My flight takes off at 1 something and by the time you read this I'll probably be sitting by myself in a random terminal at the airport, wondering why I'm about to leave the comfort of Nashville and my friends and family and Baja Burrito. Then I'll tell myself that I'm being dramatic because it's only for two months and some people move to Africa and don't see their friends or families or Baja Burrito ever again.

It's just that I'm simultaneously excited and afraid to go to England this summer.

Because while I'm enamored with cute accents and the thought of a Jesus-loving British Asian, the next two months would be much easier spent in my 1,200 square foot apartment in Hillsboro Village. Maybe I could get a part-time job at the ice cream store on 21st. Or write twice as many songs as I normally do. Or really start running and eating healthy food.

It's funny because last year, almost to the day, I jumped on a plane to England and didn't look back. I guess it's because I didn't realize my entire life was about to be broken and shifted and shaken and slowly restored. If I knew that God was going to have me share my story- that he was going to have me learn my story, really- I would've dug a hole in the ground and buried myself in it until he changed his mind. But I didn't know what was going to happen, and he didn't change his mind, so I left for the UK with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach.

And now, after eight I'm-going-to-die months, and two I'm-okay-now months, I'm going back to the place where it all began. It's like a less intense version of The Shack except I've not received a letter from God in the mailbox yet.* 

I don't know.

I'm excited, I really am. But I'm also afraid.
And I have a ticket that cost $996 in my wallet so there's no turning back.
Here's to my next adventure in all its terrifying glory!

In fact, I will go as far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you - and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it. -Gandalf, the Lord of the Rings

*Maybe God will write me a letter and cook me dinner and show me a beautiful garden and explain pain and suffering like he did in The Shack. I'd receive.

: in the wake of calamity, heaven stands.

My heart sinks deeper into my chest with every news report from Boston. Images of bloody streets and horrified people flash on the television like a progression of surreal nightmares. Whether it was an international or domestic act of terror, a crime or conspiracy, yesterday was certainly a tragedy. Again, evil has claimed the world’s attention and darkness shook its fist in the face of Light. Millions of eyes turned to heaven for answers: Why did this happen? How could a loving God…?

Tragedy shatters humanity’s great illusion of control. With one act of terror, one phone call, or one plane crash, everything changes. All the money and fame in the world cannot stop these events. Tragedy reminds us that we are all vulnerable beings at the mercy of something, or someone, else. We cannot protect ourselves from suffering in the same way that we cannot protect ourselves from the sun or rain or laughter or tears—it is simply a part of existing.

        

Why did this happen? I do not know.

How could a loving God let this take place? I do not know.

But this much I do know to be true: God’s grace runs through every building, sewer, and road in the city of Boston—it reaches into every crevice covered by bloody remnants of yesterday’s tragedy. His love goes deeper than any fear invoked by two bombs on Boylston Street. His ability to heal far outweighs any person’s ability to destroy. His peace can soothe the thousands of weary souls in despair; give rest to questioning minds. Though we tremble in the wake of calamity, heaven stands. God stands.

Death and evil do not have the last word. They may rant and rave like lunatics in the streets, but they will not prevail. God has the last word, the all-encompassing voice of triumph, and he has already spoken: “I am making everything new… It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End... Yes, I am coming soon!” (Revelation 21-22).

Amen.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.