How He Loves

The first thing I notice is the color.  The colors here are more intense, more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.  The deepest green; the most vibrant, dark pink; the crispest blue sky.
Heaven? I wonder to myself.  No; I don't know how, but I know it's not heaven.  It's here.  It's now.

I see myself, dressed comfortably in jean shorts and a T-shirt, walking along a path.  I'm laughing -- giggling, even.  My heart leaps inside of me in a way I can't explain.  Indescribable joy, bubbling up into laughter I can't hold back.  Not the hysterical kind, not the polite kind, not the funny kind; but the kind that comes from a deeply happy heart.

I'm not alone; Love is here with me.  He takes my hand, and my smile grows even larger, if that is possible.  He shows me the intricate details of the flowers we walk alongside.  He points out a squirrel who startles and runs as we approach, his tiny little feet bringing yet another smile to my face.

The slightest crisp breeze brings a fresh feeling to the already fresh spring day.  Everything is perfect.  "This day is for you," He tells me, and somehow I know that this is not a "day" in the way we think of a day; it is a season, a season of the heart.  My spirit is a flower-filled, verdant garden, but the joy I feel is from the presence of my Father in that garden.  He is the one who makes it grow; He is the one who turns it green; and He is the one who brings laughter bubbling out of my mouth.

He smiles at me, a smile His face can barely contain.  "This is how I love you."

The vision disappears, another taking its place.


There is no laughter here.   It's quiet; it's bare.  The sky is flat, the air hot and dead.  Not a breath stirs.  There is no rustling of leaves, no scurrying of squirrels.  All I can see for miles is sand.  Hot, gritty, and barren.

My skin is burning as the sun beats down on it mercilessly.  I know I would be crying, but the desert has dried out my tears; I need every last drop of hydration just to stay alive.

But I'm not alone.  He's here.  I see Him waiting, and I know I've rebuffed Him time after time.  He could shelter me if I asked Him, but I've insisted on remaining on my own.  There's something so human about the desert; standing on my own brings me an ache I'm not sure what I would do without.

But remembering the times we've shared in the garden, I make the choice. I let Him come, and become lost in His shadow.  In His arms, a cool breeze begins to rush over me.  He's close, closer than I've ever let Him be before; I need Him close.  I need healing.  His presence is water to my dry heart.

It is not the same as the garden; but we are so close, I cannot wish to be anywhere but here.  He brought me here for a reason: If we stayed always in the garden, I would never have realized how near He could be, how near He wants to be.

And even as the sun beats down around us, He whispers tenderly that He holds all my tears in a bottle, even the tears that have never left my eyes.  His strong, deeply emotional voice tells me that He will make the Valley of Trouble a door of hope.

He whispers once again: "This is how I love you."

And in the middle of the desert...joyful laughter begins to bubble up.


The garden will be all the more intimate because of the desert; the desert is bearable because I remember the garden, and allow Him to come and speak words I would otherwise find superfluous.

Both are so necessary.

Both are His love.

Intriguing Title*

My high school's free planner was pretty ridiculous.  I loved my planners, and I kept all of them -- they not only document the dates of most of the significant events of my high school career, but I also gave them awesome covers (do the words "fairy hippo baby" make you as happy as they make me?).  But these were those school planners that had inane "quizzes" in the corners about topics such as, "Are you a responsible person?" and "Are you a kind person?", determining the answers through questions that most likely involved baby whales, trees, and recycling (not that there's anything wrong with that).

One of these weekly "assignments" was actually rather meaningful.  I don't think it was an original idea, as I've heard it again since, but I liked it.

The silly little box in the corner of the page that was only useful when I was extremely bored...asked me to write my own obituary.

I never did it.  I recall some thoughts about Mt. Everest and bungee jumping, but beyond that I never put much thought into it.  I was in tenth grade, I had forever to figure out what I was going to do with my life.

But as I've watched people around me, I've discovered that so much of what we dedicate our time to will be so useless at the end of our lives.  The time to decide how we want to be remembered is now, and the time to start living that way is now.

What will people say one day, hopefully years from now, when they consider your life?

Imagine the following scenes -- people at funerals, lining up one-by-one to explain how the person who passed on has impacted their lives.

"Jimmy had so much stuff," a young man says tearfully.  "The amount of money in his bank account was really meaningful to me."

"Bob had so many Facebook friends."  *sniff*  "That changed my life."

"Annie's clothes will really be missed.  She had the cutest shoes."

"Janie went so many places, I didn't really know her.  But oh!" a woman exclaims with a sob, "she had really great Facebook pictures.  I'll miss those Facebook pictures."

"I think what I'll miss most about Audrey...is her thigh gap."  A tissue comes out.  "She was just the perfect size!" he wails, shaking his head.

Of course that's ridiculous.  Of course people aren't going to talk about the number of Facebook friends you had, and they'd better not talk about a thigh gap (which, by the way, I'd never heard of until I came to college).  That's just wrong.  These are not the things that matter.  These are not the things that last.

So why is it that these are the sorts of things we spend our time trying to achieve?

"Let not the wise boast of their wisdom or the strong boast of their strength or the rich boast of their riches, but let the one who boasts boast about this: that they understand and know me, that I am the Lord, who exercises kindness, justice and righteousness on earth, for in these I delight." | Jeremiah 9:23-24

How about this instead?

"He forgave me when I didn't expect him to, undeservedly and unreservedly."  (Col. 3:13)

"She valued me above herself."  (Phil. 2:3)

"He did everything with a joyful spirit, no matter how degrading or mundane the task."  (Phil. 2:14)

"She lived in absolute freedom."  (2 Cor. 3:17)

"He introduced me to Jesus Christ."  (Mat. 28:19)

"She loved me as Christ loves." (Eph. 5:2)

"He desired nothing in this world more than Jesus Christ."  (Ps. 73:25)

"She feared God, and became fearless."  (Is. 8:12)

Here is my challenge to you.

What do you want people to say about you, at the end of your life?  Looking back, what will they remember?  What do you want them to remember?

And once you've figured out what you want that to be, go after it.  Stop at nothing.  If it is to be your legacy, make it a strong one.  If it's Facebook friends, get adding.  If it's a thigh gap, get at those squats.

If it's Jesus Christ, get on your face.

Let it be said of us that we gave to reach the dying
Let it be said of us that our hearts belonged to Jesus
Let it be said of us that we spoke the words of life
Let it be said of us that we lived to be a blessing

"What is the secret to great living?  Entire separation to Christ and devotion to Him.  Thus speaks every man and woman whose life has made more than a passing flicker in the spiritual realm.  It is the life that has no time for trifling that counts." | Amy Carmichael

*I couldn't think of anything exciting.  I am currently taking suggestions for the title of this post.  Let me know.  If I use your idea, I'll give you a virtual hug (oh yeah, get excited).

Unfinished?

Once upon a time...a woman asked an artist for a painting.

She didn't specifically ask...but she did set up a canvas in his studio.

And the artist, you see, loved to paint.  So if someone gave him the opportunity to paint, he thrilled in it.  He rejoiced in it.  And he painted.

A few weeks after he had begun painting, the woman heard about his work.  Furious, she went to see the artist.  "I didn't ask you for a painting!" she exclaimed.  "I have no wall space, nowhere to put it!  I wanted that canvas left blank, maybe for later, but certainly not now!"  She glanced at the painting, already underway, already marked by the master artist's brushstrokes, already symbolic of hours of loving, passionate work.  "I want that thing destroyed."

The artist protested.  "This will be one of my finest works," he told her.  "If you don't have room for it, I will find someone else to give it to, someone who will love it and appreciate its beauty."

She did not listen.

The artist was agonized.  "Please," he begged her, "I love this painting.  I have spent hours planning it, designing it.  It is meant to be cherished."  He trailed his finger over the just-dried paint.  It was already beautiful; how much more beautiful could it be when it was finished!

But with a shake of her head, the woman reached out, grabbed the painting, and ripped it apart.

The artist wept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not an artist.  But I do remember a time when I was younger that I was knitting a scarf.  I was very, very proud of my progress on the scarf from the first stitch onward.  One day, in my carelessness, I let the needle slip out, and the entire scarf unraveled.  I was most distraught.

The scarf wasn't finished yet.  I could start over.  I could even do it differently if I wanted to.

But even the few rows of uneven stitches represented hours of hard, shaky-fingered, careful little-girl work.

Everyone (hopefully) would sympathize with a little girl whose unfinished scarf unraveled.

We would call someone cruel who destroyed a painting whilst it was still under the artist's brush.

We would weep with someone whose novel's first pages were thrown into the fire, though the remainder had yet to be written.

Let us, then, weep for the Master Artist, the Divine Author, whose work is so often destroyed mid-brushstroke...mid-word.

It's not a baby yet, but you wouldn't dare feed a smile-less Mona Lisa to the flames.

It's not a human yet, but you wouldn't shred the first hundred pages of War and Peace and justify it by saying it's "not a book yet."

It's not finished yet, but even if it's not, what does it matter??

What does it matter?

Do you see?  Do you understand?

I can in no way stand in judgment on any woman who has had an abortion.  I have no idea what she has been through.  No idea.  But somewhere along the way, whether by herself or someone she trusted, she had to have been lied to.

She had to have been told, "It's okay...it's not finished yet."

Oh, we are all not finished yet! praise God!  But may we ever see the love, the planning, the passion that went into our creation!  How can we justify destroying something simply because the final touch has not been added?

Simply because it's "not done" doesn't mean it isn't already beautiful.

Simply because it's "in progress" doesn't mean it's not already indescribably precious.

I have nothing to add, except that I pray our hearts may be broken, enlightened, and move to action.

May we fight to keep the Artist's canvass under His brush.

Happy Fourth Quarter!

Did you know me this time last year?

I was a senior in high school -- and I was one of those senior girls. A senior girl who, while everyone else delighted in the arrival of their graduation robes, tried on hers with misted eyes. A senior girl who, while everyone else exclaimed how excited they were to get out of the house, clung teary-eyed to her mommy. A girl who had to make "crying dates" with her shower so that she wouldn't lose it in class (although that still happened multiple times); who had to practice the graduation song dozens of times at home until she could get through it without choking up; a girl who hugged more and cried more during that last quarter than you would ever believe. A girl who dreaded every end and sobbed through every last -- and a girl who missed the magic of every new beginning.

Everyone tried to tell me. "Things are ending," they would acknowledge, "but they have to end so that new things can happen."

I would have laughed in their faces if I hadn't been crying (rude, I know). I didn't care about beginnings. I couldn't understand why more people weren't feeling this way. Silly and melodramatic as it sounds, a little part of me died when I graduated from high school.

I never asked God why I had to graduate and move on. That just comes with life, and He certainly ought not except me from the human task of growing up. But I did ask Him, many many times, why it was so hard for me when it seemed to be so easy -- so exciting -- for almost everyone else.

"It is not that everything that has anything to do with ourselves is in itself wicked and deserving of death. It did not mean that when Jesus said, 'Not my will...' There could not have been even the smallest part of His will that was wicked. It was a choice to lay down everything -- the good He had done and the good He might do if He was permitted to live -- for the love of God. The same choice is offered to us... Little deaths have to be died just as great ones do" (Elisabeth Elliot, Passion and Purity).

God never answered why I was so devastated about moving on to a new stage of life. Maybe I'm simply more inclined to form strong emotional attachments. Whatever it was, it was settled and not going to change. But what could change was what I did with it.

In the grand scheme of things, moving on from high school is not what most people would call a "great death." But it still had to be died. I had to give up high school and everything that came along with it -- the comfort of familiar friends, teachers, events, drives, everything I knew -- they all had to be forsaken, changed, died to.

But it has taken nearly a year for Christ to impress the following onto my heart:

"There is a big however. It is this: We are not meant to die merely in order to be dead. God could not want that for the creatures to whom He has given the breath of life. We die in order to live" (Elliot).

I can hear you now. "Kendall, you're over-spiritualizing graduation."

Perhaps in your experience, it wasn't (or won't be) nearly this big of a deal. Perhaps no one, no one at all can relate to this. But my friend, this paralyzed me. I was unable to move on and embrace the new life that I had been so graciously given. I could not enjoy it fully, because all my new experiences were mixed with the memories of a past that I couldn't get back. I'm a naturally joyful person, and this fought hard to take that away.

That part of me died, and it stayed dead.

It took the realization that it really has been nearly a year for me to make an effort to fight nostalgia. It took realizing that my life has been on hold, even as it whirred by me, for almost a year! Life is too short, my friend! I cannot spend a year wishing it was an earlier year! I cannot spend a year too focused on old acquaintances to reach out and make new friends! I cannot spend an entire year of college in high school!

I know you may not be able to relate to this yet. But from what I have seen of people beyond me in years and wisdom, there will come a time when you wish you were facing anything but
now.

But we are told to make the most of every opportunity. We are told to forget what is behind and press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of us. We are told to see that He is doing a new thing.

That part of me died for a reason -- so that it could live again. So that it could be brand new. And oh! He has been waiting far too long for me to come to Him and beg Him to begin that new thing.

Giver of good, help me love the now!

To love the now!

Whether you are a middle schooler about to begin high school next semester, a senior thinking back on the past four years and looking expectantly to the end of May, or you have moved beyond those stages and are smiling at all the life I have left to live (much of which I am sure will blow high school out of the water)...may you love the now. May He help you love the now. If the now is filled with laughter, may it spill out onto everyone around you. If the now brings you heartache, tears, and little death upon little death, may you have the courage to die, knowing that you are meant to live again.

Laugh with me. Cry with me. Feel whatever you're feeling with your whole heart, and don't be afraid of it.

But don't be afraid to let it go, feel something new, and do something new.

Happy Fourth Quarter, my friend. May you live it with your whole heart.

After Kony

I haven't shared the Kony video on Facebook.

Does that make me a terrible person?

I mean, maybe it's because by the time I found the time to watch it (tonight) it had already been posted so many times that my adding to the constant "So-and-so and 17 other friends shared a link" would have seemed redundant (although with this campaign, I guess that's the whole point). Maybe it's because I thought people wouldn't watch a 30 minute video if I shared it (after all, I didn't -- I waited until Invisible Children actually came to my university). But come on! I'm usually on top of this whole "Facebook sharing" thing! I'm behind on my game! (Actually I'm usually the person who starts "round 2" of a viral video, oblivious to the fact that everyone has already seen it months ago.)

I love the fervor, the passion with which people have greeted this video and this issue. They know it's important. They want to do something about it. I think that's great. I signed the little pledge card, hung up a poster in our dorm room, and yeah, I cried when I watched that video. I agree -- let's do something.

But there's something that's bothering me. Not with the issue, not with the campaign, the organization, or any of that (please do not think I am criticizing IC or this mission to see Joseph Kony brought to justice).

It's that nagging worry that this will be it.

I'm not accusing people of, "Oh, all of a sudden you care." YES, please care! I'm so glad you care now! Care now, because now is when you've heard about it!! We can hardly care when we do not know.

But the video expires December 31, 2012.

So what next?

Will this fizzle out?

Will this be it?

Lord willing, when it works, and this man is stopped -- what then?

Will we rejoice in the victory, but then simply return to our everyday lives?


There is a child soldier in Burma named Shwe Dara. He was nine years old when I purchased his dog tags this past summer. As of that moment, he was on active duty.

The story broke my heart. He was more than a concept, he was a name, a human being. For weeks, I clutched those tags close to my heart and whispered prayers for Shwe Dara, a child half my age forced to carry an AK-47 that I myself would have a hard time lifting.

And then the dog tags got too noisy to carry around. Other worries started occupying my mind. Shwe Dara was pushed to the back burner, his tags hung on a hook, and his name become unfamiliar on my tongue once more.

But he's still out there. Unless he's been killed -- God, may it not be -- he's still Shwe Dara, a little boy living in Burma with dreams and a personality and a favorite food. Has the ministry from which I learned his name rescued him? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But what I do know is that even though the novelty of his story has passed, his story is still going on; and thus, so should my love and my prayers and my support for this little boy.

So my question is: Now that you know stuff like this exists, what will you do? When this video no longer appears in your News Feed twelve times in an hour, will you still have a heart and a mind for the slave? Will you still plead for them on your knees? Will you speak up for those who cannot speak up for themselves, even when you have no reminder?

Will you remember? Because let me tell you, my friend, the children living in this hell certainly remember. This is not a fad to them. It's not a trend. It's not a viral video. It's their life.

And they are not the only ones. Millions of orphans live on the streets, sniffing glue to ease the hunger that gnaws at their stomachs. Billions of people live in poverty, drinking water that you and I wouldn't even deign to swim in. What about them? Could we take the enthusiasm with which we have met this cause, and go hard after helping them as well? "Stop At Nothing," say the posters. Will we stop at nothing for the billions of beautiful people left after this is over?

America knows now to be passionate. So let us continue to be passionate. Let us be educated and active, and never, EVER lose this fervor. If we fought like this for every cause, for every orphan, for every man woman and child living in poverty, can you imagine what could be done?? I am so glad this video got the ball rolling, but let's keep it going long after Kony is gone.

I am a hopeful, prayerful optimist that our nation can wake up and start fighting for something.

May this passion never end. Oh Lord...let us wake up, and NEVER fall back asleep.

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter -- when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?" -Isaiah 58:6-7

Over My Shoulder

I live on the second floor of a two-story, apartment-style dorm complex. It's pretty great. Okay, really great.

Tonight, for the first time, I was in a downstairs apartment for an extended period of time. I hadn't realized until now how much noise travels downstairs. My first thought was, "Oh! Our poor downstairs neighbors! I wonder what they've heard?"

My second thought was a much more panicked, "....What have they heard??"

I wracked my brain, trying to think of embarrassing things I've said loudly. There's probably many of them. And even worse...have I said anything about other people?

God gently but piercingly spoke to my heart. The way you speak should be such that you should never even have to worry about that.

Oh, so much conviction.

The Lord brought to mind five categories of persons I believe we should be mindful of when we speak. In fact, I believe we should be imagining that they can hear every single word we say. I would like to share those with you.

1. Our Friends. I love my friends. I love them a lot. And they're pretty great. I don't tend to criticize them, because they don't give me a lot of reason to. But if they could hear every single word I speak about them, would they feel honored? Would they feel treasured, loved, encouraged and uplifted? One hundred percent of the time? If we notice something less-than-admirable in them, should we not take this concern first to Christ and, if appropriate, to the friends themselves? No one should ever hear derogatory comments about the people I do life with. If I would not say it to their face, I should say it to no one.
2. Our Enemies. I'm not sure I have any "enemies," so perhaps I'll define this more loosely as "people we don't particularly like." Sometimes, personalities don't click. Sometimes, circumstances cloud our opinions. Sometimes, we try to hold non-Christians to the same standard to which we ought to hold ourselves. Whatever the reason for our distaste, it needs to be brought to the feet of Christ, and left there. "Love through me, Love of God," Amy Carmichael pleaded, and He can do it. If the people we're not naturally particularly fond of could hear what we say about them, would they be amazed at the unconditional, consuming love of Christ pouring through us? Or would they find rejection and disdain? May it never be!
3. Our Parents. I cannot tell you the number of times a child has posted something on Facebook, thinking their parent will never see it, only to have the parent find it. First off, how embarrassing. And secondly, what good does it do? Speaking negatively about our parents behind their backs is only destructive. It solidifies opinions that they are careless, worthless, brainless, or what have you, and it does nothing to address any real problems that might be going on. I realize that not everyone was given parents like mine, and there might be real hurt involved. But if they could hear what you said to your friends -- what would they do? How would they feel? Would it encourage them to be a better parent, or would it just make them angry? Can we not at least give them the honor of speaking to them directly?
4. Our Future Spouse. If I am going to be blessed with marriage, my future husband is alive. He's out there somewhere. He's doing something tonight. Maybe he's wondering what I'm doing. And how would he feel...if I was giggling about someone other than him? Let me tell you, some of these days, he would have been horrified. Sickened. Heartbroken. This has less to do with how we speak about our future spouse and more to do with honoring them. If my guy could see the way I speak with and about the opposite sex, would he feel honored? Would he be impressed by my gracious, ladylike, decorous speech? Or would he cringe, his heart aching for me to be more cautious with my words?
5. God Himself. Not to make God sound like a creeper or anything, but, uh, He can hear you. And He tells us that "men will have to give account on the day of judgment for every careless word they have spoken" (Matt. 12:36). Wow. That one always convicts me. How many times do I speak without thinking? How many times do I speak without considering that my words are to be an offering of worship to a Most High God who gave up His life for me?

There is so much in Scripture regarding the tongue. God wants that part of our life, and He has every right to claim it. May our speech ever be such that finding out our downstairs roommates can overhear would be far from a concern -- it would be a blessing, for they would be overhearing the most uplifting, Christlike conversation they'd ever encountered.

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." -Ephesians 4:29-32

The Romance of Life

My very own Valentine Dare was a personal success. A rousing success.

A total turnaround in the way I approach life.

It started with an early morning. A very early morning. But that was okay, because I knew Jesus was going to give me a gift.

It was cold and rainy. But that was okay, because I knew Jesus was going to give me a gift.

Classes were long and tiring. But I didn't think about that for long -- I was waiting for a gift.

My eyelids were heavy all day. But my heart was awake, because I was anticipating a gift.

I got a gift. More than one, really. Lots of little ones, and a day with the king of Kings.

And the greatest part of the day was when I heard Him whisper, "Let's do this every day."

I began to notice gifts in the strangest of things.

A lab that got out early. A spontaneous Starbucks run with a sweet friend. Warmer-than-of-late weather. A playful squirrel.

And even better, I was always looking. Always asking. Always anticipating. Always excited.

I think, my friend, He has a gift in every day.

It might be small.

But it's there.

"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." -James 1:17

Life is more lovely when you're always looking for a gift.

Let's do it.