August 31, 2014

Tonight I held a Dilly Bar in my right hand and walked barefoot on the green grass of my front yard and felt the sun on my shoulders. I was young again and wild, too.

Dear Cheesus, I'm sorry. (Like Nacho Libre would say)

I guess it all has to come back to Jesus.

All of the excitement and energy and romantic parts of life are fleeting if not rooted, right?

In the last month I have:

1. Been in 7 airports
2. Thrown my body into the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean
3. Trekked through the jungle
4. Floated for hours on my back while I sang sweet songs to Heaven
5. Camped in the back of a van (with the hatch up, what what) in a parking lot before my friend's nuptial celebration
6. Ate a s'more!
7. Slept on a sailboat

That's my view when I looked up from my bed on the sailboat!

8. Faced my fear of tiny, clustered holes (SWEET LAWD, WHY?!)
9. Been so swooooooooned by a boy that I spontaneously (...nervously) broke into Sunday School songs at the sight of him
10. Rested my chin on the skin of good friends, faithful and funny

I've been a part of some good, good moments. And I'm grateful, but I'm also ungrateful.

Only the trained eye can tell how impressive of a dance move I'm in the middle of.

Because I sit here now on my bed in Georgia and those ten events seem far away, and I'm doing countless internet searches for the next "thing". And upon not finding it, I reached into a bag of Ketchup chips and hardly returned.

After the adventure, I'm first: exhausted, second: happy for my own space, third: restless like a pit bull in a dance class, fourth: defeated like a mouse with no cheese.

WHERE IS MY CHEESE?

My cheese is Jesus.

Sadly, I forget this all the time. When I get those impatient hunger pangs (read: What is my life?!) I move swiftly towards the cheap stuff wrapped in thin little plastic sheets or the expensive kinds-wheel shaped and on woodblocks. Nom, nom, gone. But it won't feed the gnawing inside me for purpose and acceptance. The cheese stands alone, guys! No career or accolade or french kiss at the beach can cut it. (Heh.)

There's gold in them hills. Golden apples.

Before I reach for something, I must stand still with palms to the sky and a prayer of remembrance on my tongue. It's a lesson I have to re-learn, probably repeatedly until I die and my finite mind is opened and his wonderful light is poured out on me like a laser beam. (Does anyone else get an 80s visual when I say this?) Until then, we must remind ourselves.

Papa in Heaven,

Help me to not take greatest pleasure in what I can accomplish and appreciate here. You are my greatest pleasure! 

May my gaze be directed upwards, and as it is so, may your glory enhance whatever is here before me.

July 5, 2014

It has to be the small instances that make a trip, a life, measurable. For I don't believe I cured any disease while in Brazil, or put an end to sex trafficking, or even saw the conversion of one person. 

There were no remarkable happenings that lead to victorious chanting (unless you count the final seconds of dozens of soccer games, and why yes, please do count them). 

But there were glimmers of fear and anticipation in a pair of eyeballs belonging to a girl sitting next to me at dinner when I told her not to hide herself. There were waves upon murderous waves that washed up along the imprinted shore, reaching, and took back with them a left-footed sandal and erased all the places our feet had been; God's beauty and power (and mercy) revealed to us perched on a rock just out of the splash zone. There was a song I sang in church meant for one girl who began a new life; the promises of God being poured over her head at her baptism. 

I had no way of knowing the stream of righteousness God lay before me, as I know not now what lays before me. Life is always in the little, in the moment. Not what you can plan, but who you are.

Who you are is small. And what you will do is small. And that is what this world needs desperately.

BRAZIL NEEDS ME (well, no) AND I NEED YOU (but, yes).

Blue Plate Special

All the world is art, if you're willing to see it that way.

This is the crumb-laden plate from yesterday's open face sandwich, but I don't know-the way the sky's light hit it, it felt like a creation. Beautiful in its own right.

I especially like the grains of salt that fell from the crinkle cut chips I ate. 

May we stop and see the art where it is tucked into our lives, begging to be noticed.

Church Over Eggs

About the twelfth day.

We ate breakfast around the kitchen island on high stools and talked about the direction of the organization we work for and low carb diets. It had Jesus written all over it.

Community.

It's what the Kingdom is about - all of us together. We're a package deal.

A most refreshing and holy Sunday service.

How Jesus Used Pinto Beans to Tell Me Something

The seventh day. 

The art of cooking pinto beans has escaped me until this day. I mean, I've witnessed them being cooked countless times and I've mashed them in the frying pan enough to know I like them smooth as butter. But before today I'd never sorted through the pile of beans and known what to do next. 

I had to text my mom. 

It would be four hours of high heat in the crock pot before they would be ready for mashing. 

I should have known this, but I didn't. I've gobbled up pinto beans since I was a little bean myself. But now, as a 23 year old woman in my community house kitchen, I obliged myself to my mother's instructions. 

Lord knows I've been resting - with him, from him. It's been an interesting time. 

I've sat in my nook and sang all kinds of sultry songs to a lover in the sky. I've sat in a corner booth at a neighbourhood restaurant and eaten a burger while imagining I was looking Jesus Christ in the eyes while he sat across the table from me. 

On that very occasion, I told him I wanted to be a vessel. I wanted to do all of this for him. 

"And you thought you would never work for someone else again." 

Ugh. How glaringly wrong of me to assume that once I was done in an office, it would be my show. 

I've slept in and slept through some of our promised meetings. It's caused me grief, but it's never left me feeling like I shouldn't re-schedule. He's been available to me every time, whether planned in advance (burgers) or spontaneous (hallelujah singing in my nook). 

I don't know what I'm doing really, but I know there's something to this meeting. This pausing. 

I was feeling overwhelmed today at the office, wondering why I'm here of all places and how it helps anything, when I decided to pause. I took a walk up the thigh maddening hill to repent. 

"I'm sorry that I'm dissatisfied. I'm so sorry that I get dissatisfied so easily. I will be satisfied in you."

Something simple. A walk up a hill and back again.

I'm still vastly unaware of what is going on and how I can solve myself. It's unimportant, mostly. But that walk up the hill, the moment of acknowledgement and surrender, that's what mattered today. The puzzle will always be there, much to the annoyance of my peevish soul. 

But like pinto beans, worry has surrounded me my whole life but I didn't know what to do with it. But today I stopped - to acknowledge that I could use some help, that I didn't know what I was doing. 

My mom recommended a crock pot, some water and salt. My Heavenly Father recommended some sweet time together. It's pretty much the only answer he has for me these days. 

When you find yourself sunk into more than you know how to get yourself out of, don't scramble. Pause.

Why Finding a Good Running Partner Made All the Difference

The third day, first half.

It had been more than a week since I'd last laced up my shoes for a run. I dreaded it the way someone dreads sitting at their desk to take an exam they didn't properly prepare for.

This is gonna suck-this is gonna suck-suck-sucksucksuck.

I extended an invitation to God in case he felt like working on his cardio. He did, of course, because when does he ever not want to be included in what we're doing?

It was playful enough at first; I teased God as if we were in a competition. "Are you sure you can make it up this hill?" But we laughed because it was always I who was out of breath at the crest.

After so many pounds of my feet against pavement I ran out of topics, literally. Silence accompanied me past the fire station and beyond the house with the yappy dogs in the yard. I didn't have anything to talk about and panic perspired along my forehead.

God's going to be disappointed in the lack of entertainment on this run. I've gotta DO something to make this worth his while. (As if he had postponed his plans in China to be with me, as if this were my shot at proving myself to Heaven.)

Then I saw a tree in a yard I passed dozens of times before- light pink blossoms fluttered to the ground, changing their backdrop of cool blue sky to gritty black asphalt. All was beautiful, any way you sliced it.

My heart pulsed with gratitude for the temperature, my legs to move, the blossoms, my hair tie, the downhill parts of my route. It was all so meaningful in that moment; the authority of gratefulness caused the the critical voice to flee.

I had the best running partner.

"I can ask you a question 20 times
 You're patient with me, patient with me, patient with me
 You don't think I'm ugly, you don't think I'm ugly, you don't think I'm ugly
 Matter of fact you think I'm very, very, very, very, very, very, very special pretty."

It was that jumbled song which motivated me to cross the halfway point without slowing down. Here on this screen it looks like an infantile expression of a spasmodic thought but in my heart it was water: quenching and refreshing and eternal.

Don't doubt the incredible the things you might say to God in between fast breaths, what you might be surprisingly grateful for, what your heart longs to say in a moment of unabashed pursuit.

It can happen anywhere: dancing in your bedroom, walking through the park, with a caramel frappuccino in your car. Holy moments are waiting to be grasped. Go somewhere by yourself and say what you mean to say, whether you know it or not.

God Thinks Our Accusations are Comical - In the Nicest Way

The second day.

7:13 AM on the stove clock when I walked into the kitchen.

I slumped into a chair around the table, feeling guilty for being late again.

I closed my eyes and saw God in a suite and tie.

"You look like Patrick Dempsey." Or maybe Patrick Dempsey looks like God, whatever, it's still strangely amusing.

Once again in my mind's eye we were seated in some fancy restaurant. We chatted about weather-like topics until I cleared my throat to shift the subject.

"I feel left out and unloved, like a second class child." I traversed my way through descriptions of my hurts, ways I believed he had fallen short, but as I was running out of ammo, I lost sight of my target.

"I don't think it's fair that certain children of yours get special treatment."
If I microwave the green beans in this bowl that means I'll have to use another plastic container for my lunch. 
"It's as if there's some riddle to solve."
Ok, the rice is a little hard but it'll be unnoticeable once everything is put together.
"..."
Seriously Melissa, no more than a handful of cheese. You've gotta make it last.
"..."
Why does this look so small? Am I going to be hungry after lunch?
"..."
I guess I'll take carrot sticks again.
"Oops. What was I talking about?"
"That you felt ignored by me."

It was in the neighbourhood of 20 minutes before I realized I had left God without a chance to speak; the green beans had my sole concentration.

My exclamatory remarks were now a moot point. I didn't have the attention span to hear his explanation, at least not the same that I had reserved for the preparation of my lunch. If God slaps us in the face, he does it so gently.

Bowing my head in repentance, I felt my accusations were much like those who witnessed Jesus' death on the cross. But still, "Father forgive her. She doesn't know."

Whatever we have to throw at Jesus, he doesn't dodge it; he cradles it. He can hold the hot flames of allegations in his bare hands because they have no power over him. And he is patient to play catch with us, as if we were trying out for little league.

Cooking in the Kitchen with God

The first day.

I think it's a Kanye West song that wakes me up for my appointment with God. I slept through the first alarm; I was supposed to go running first.

In sweat shorts and a thrift store pullover I hobble down the stairs and into the kitchen, my ankles cracking with my first movements of the morning.

"Sorry" I mumble as I turn the on the light that hangs over the kitchen table. I'm 5 minutes late and if this were a business meeting I'd be in trouble, but it's not. He doesn't mention my arrival or attire, he just waits.

I decide that today is as good a day as any to make potatoes and eggs for breakfast -- what with a sous chef and all.

As I'm chopping I'm talking, telling him about myself. It's like what a first date might be like when you've known the person your whole life. It's kind of charming in the way that I know he already knows literally everything about me, but I'm telling him anyway. I want him to know that I want him to know.

Eventually I slow down, the potatoes are sitting in a crackling pool of oil in the confines of a skillet pan. There's nothing for me to do but to sit and wait. And in a moment of honesty, I tell him I'm afraid of this whole project -- what if he doesn't show up to these dates? What if I get left abandoned, the very thing I'm most afraid of?

In my mind I see us sitting across from each other at a posh restaurant. We're wearing stellar outfits. I think I have makeup on my face. He leans over to me and whispers in a tone of equal parts confident and delicate.

"I don't disappoint."

My eyelids pop open. I look around the room to see if anyone else is a witness to the electricity. But no, that moment was meant for one; I'm the only one seated across the table from him.

Struck with awe and a bit of sheepishness, I pour the egg over the potatoes and finish the dish.

What will this mean for me?

30 Days to become a lover

It's predictable. I could feel it coming like the spring.

The last year of travel has made my body (emotions, etc.) conform to a 30 day cycle where I am always expecting change. The pattern continued even as I made my way home in December. Three weeks a bit for Christmas cheer, then off to Georgia.

A week at a lake house in Tennessee.

Back to Georgia.

And now, I'm still in Georgia. For the first time in over a year, I've stayed put somewhere for more than 30 days.

Frightening.

And along with this new era was ushered in some room for contemplation.

I let out a sigh today at lunch, heavier than I anticipated. As I looked up I locked eyes with my friend. She noticed, her raised eyebrows asking for an explanation.

We spent the next half hour talking about how much of a tortured soul I feel like, how my counsellor said that I'm angry with God and I can't seem to shake the fact that, fudge yes I am.

I've been trying to arouse a response from God-"Fix me! Fix meeeeee!"-screaming inside my head for days now. For years now.

The truth is that He doesn't want to fix me. He wants to be allowed to love me. As in, he wants an open door into my ______ness (business, messiness, grossness, etc.). And I forgot that.

That makes me mad, to be honest. That there's this big, booming God up there who's got a major thing for me and I'm so consumed about the fact that I'm screwing up I can't even acknowledge it. I can't even swoon over it.

Not okay.

So for the next 30 days I'm going to see if I can't just fall in love with God. It'll be over dates and plates of macaroni and walks and jogs and maybe painting my nails if I ever get around to it. We'll talk about why I think I'm a failure. We'll look at milestones and converse over the rough patches. We'll do this without electronics, maybe with pen and paper, always together.

For the next 30 days I'm going to spend one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening with God, doing whatever. (The whatever does require interaction though, no "watching a movie... with God".) I'm also going to read the Psalms because I think David wasn't afraid to be angry with God. Or to be captivated by him.

So what do you say, folks? Will you join me? Will you do what you can to put yourself on the line for the possibility of an incredible romance?

I have seen God sweep me off my feet and onto some holy ground before. I'm confident He'll do it again. And again. And again.

Guat Now? Vol. II

In full predictability that is the mysteriousness of God, I was surprised to find that things didn't go according to plan.

Things rarely going according to whatever "the plan" is, but I still find myself taken aback.

"What a curveball, God. You've done it again!" 

A couple of weeks ago I felt strongly compelled to ask my department leaders if I could go to Gautemala on a radical Levite worship mission. I swivelled back and forth in my black leather office chair at my desk. "I should go." "I'm going to go." "Who am I to go?!" 

The truth is, who was I not to go?

I guess I thought that I was ill equipped to participate on such a trip. I'm not part of the worship track here at CGA; I don't even play an instrument! But God's prompting gave me the courage beyond all doubts to simply ask to join in. They needed another soprano voice, anyway. 

But my request caused a wave of conflict that I didn't anticipate. One of my department leaders wasn't so fond of me leaving, namely because it blurred the lines of my commitment. Her response made me want to start calling out ultimatums, as if this were some grand territorial land dispute. How dare she minimize my opportunities. 

Only a few days later did she share her raw feelings about the whole thing. She was building a magazine; we were there to help. More than that, she desired for us to be clustered around our office's dark wood and sturdy table, brainstorming ideas and laughing until someone happened to look at the clock to realize we were working late. 

She had a dream and I was now a part of it. I had my own dream. It was my job to reconcile the two. 

Rummaging through my feelings about all of this, I realized that her feelings were never significant in my decision. That bothered me, so I let my thoughts run wild through the swinging doors of insight: I was not invested in the program, I didn't understand the vision, I felt like an outsider - as if I were the lonely PC at a table full of shiny MacBooks. (In fact we all had MacBooks, which made me mad: matching glowing white apple emblems like we belonged to a sorority.) 

I was not okay with this. If I had come here to soak up experience, then why was I treating it like a trip to the grocery store? Why was I resisting it?

A further prompting from the good Lord had me seated across the table from my department leader. Before I knew it, I was apologizing for all of the places I had been lacking. Right then, there was a shift in my universe. I don't go as far as to say the universe as a whole, but into my tiny life was breathed new air, new perspective. Guatemala or no Guatemala, opportunities were everywhere! 

This whole process produced fruits sweeter than I would have thought. When conflict arrises in my life I want to look at the intangible, not the thing in front of me, but what the whole thing might actually be about. I want to look for opportunities disguised as problems. It's so easy to get caught up in "the thing", but we might be missing the bigger point.

What are you stressed about? What seems out of harmony? Take a step back and look at it again. 

I'm not going to Guatemala right now but I'm sure glad I asked.

Sabbaths are for making granola.

I really think God was onto something when he created a day for rest. 

Growing up I hated Sundays. After eating lunch I would stir with restless boredom, not knowing what to do, what should be done. A day set aside. And yet, for what? 

I couldn't tell. 

But now I know that rest is more than the physical act of laying in one's bed. It's a quietness that makes the rest of the week's unpleasantries come off you like a mist. Whatever doesn't matter fades away in the presence of the stillness. 

I stood in my kitchen today while making granola and found that quiet. I kept reaching for the electronic device within reach, but when I stopped myself I committed myself to Sabbath. To asking God, maybe, to listening. Even to just stand in my kitchen and acknowledge his Presence. Even to just acknowledge that where I am is a holy place. 

Who knows what the rest of the day will hold. Some FaceTime conversations, maybe I'll paint my fingernails or watch a movie. I might sit in my nook and read and scheme and get caught up in some wonder-lust. 

A Sabbath is about as unique as each individual. Whatever gives your soul rest, whatever makes you alive in the sweetness, catches your breath, stills your anxious heart… Whatever brings you into the Presence of God, do that. 

Guat now?!

I feel like time is flying here! My parents were here for a week and now they're gone.

That's 10 meals eaten in a restaurant in one week and six slices of left over no-bake cheesecake. That (and a few other gems) are what I have to show for my week. It was great. They are great and I'm blessed to have them care so much to fly (aka face their fear of being in the clouds) down here to see me.

There's probably a million different things I could be getting involved with right now. I'm working hard at my apprenticeship and track to further the goals of the mission organization. Ideas are turning into plans and plans are turning into more people on the mission field for the Kingdom of God. Whoop! Naturally, it's a very busy place. So I'm trying to rest in what I actually feel called to and not just what I could occupy my time with. You ready to hear what that calling is?

Guatemala.

But only for six days. And more specifically the calling is risk. Faith and risk. Identical twins, sometimes. God has been gently tugging at me to just step out into the unknown with him. The worship track is headed there for some worship/prayer time over the places where they want to continue to build long term bases for missionaries. Awesome!

We are Levites, hear us sing!

I'm not actually in worship track but I've been welcomed to join them in their quest to bring God's holy presence to the mountains and valleys of this great and wild Central American country.

I'm a little afraid of what lies ahead but that's generally the case with life when you don't know what you're doing, right? It's scary. It's water above your head and you can't remember if you learned how to swim or not. God will throw you a life vest. Faith is buoyant.

So I'm trusting that God has something awesome for everyone involved in this trip.

I need $800 to cover my airfare there and then I'll be set.

So here's where you can join in. Pray for me + the team! You're always welcome to donate here!
https://www.adventures.org/give/donate.asp?giveto=worldrace&desc=For%20Melissa%20Friesen

Or, if you prefer a more trade-sy kind of deal, buy my book online and then we'll both have something to talk about!:
http://www.blurb.com/b/2281346-write-this-book

Thank you for listening and loving.

Don't forget to live a life full.

Three years is a long time to hold one's breath.

Do you ever think maybe that you should just be still so as to not make any ripples in the water?

Better to stand still with your back straight than to push the water. 

It makes me so self-conscious. I'm so aware of the stillness, of the way we're all just looking at one another with blank stares. It's not always like this, but there are moments, periods in time, when I've got restless-entire-body-syndrome and I feel trapped. 

By who? By what? I'm not entirely sure. By myself I guess, and my perception that I mustn't make a stir. For the sake of others, possibly. That I might damage them, throw them off kilter. For my faith, as well. I should behave. 

But I really just want to live. And feel peace flood me like a mighty river when I've dove too deep or when I'm choking on water. I'd rather choke on water than never know what it tastes like. 

And I'd rather love too hard, put myself out on too many weak limbs, and foolishly pursue every dream of mine than to sit back and wonder what it might have been like. 

A few years ago I had an encounter with God which lead me to believe that he told me who my husband would be. And I beeeeelieved it. For three years I prayed for this man like an extension of myself, waiting for the day when it would it all come together. 

I wrote a book about that encounter. I used his real name and then self-published it. 

And you want to know what happened? He got engaged to another girl, another girl who isn't me. THAT WAS NOT PART OF THE PROPHECY.

Now I have to wrestle with debilitating thoughts about not really knowing the voice of God, and being an idiot, and "what in the world do I do now?!" Well folks, that sure makes life interesting. I went all in. My eggs were placed and reserved for a very specific basket. That basket was someone else's and here's the interesting part: I don't regret it. 

I've had the most intimate and heartbreaking conversations with God for the last three years thanks to that encounter and I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon. I'd rather make mistakes, if only to draw nearer to God's heart for me. He caught me. I'm all wrapped up in his love, anticipating what adventure might be next.

Go ahead and take a big, fat risk. 

And for interest's sake, are you familiar with the verse from Psalms that says, "Be still and know that I am God"?  You should know that the Hebrew root word means something more like, "Fail and know that I am God."