April 27, 2024 (God of the Impossible)

“I Hate it Here” has been my favorite #TTPS song on loop, and I’m not sure what that says about me, other than that I might be mildly depressed at the moment lol.

I’ve started casually referring to myself as a “cynical idealist,” aka: someone who fervently longs for perfection, utopia, untainted beauty, and wholehearted love at every turn. Yet, someone who also has been burned—more than a few times—by lesser, broken versions of those very same things. It’s resulted in a strange juxtaposition—a wrestling duality—between light and dark; contentment and despair; hope and fatalism.

Additionally, I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that I don’t actually have that much faith, if the definition of faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Now, in my 30s, I’ve experienced enough of this world to have tasted (and recoiled at) its bitterness: the way best-laid plans can go awry; the way we don’t always get what we want; and how the masks people wear can be so deep, so pervasive and convincing, that when the real person underneath is finally revealed, you’re left reeling and wondering and questioning your entire reality. It’s hard to have faith, to have hope for the impossible good, when you’ve tasted so much bitterness. It’s easy to sink into a sort of apathetic resignation.

But I don’t think any of us wants to live this way. My not-so-secret truth is that I DO hope for more. I DO long for more. I’m just too scared to say it out loud.

I keep remembering, reading about, and coming back to this God I follow. I can’t escape the grace that holds me. The other night I went on a furious search through scripture, trying to convince myself of things that feel unconvincing. So I now have an entire running list, in my journal, of verses where God has declared, and has indeed done, the statistically impossible: opening wombs; raising the dead; defeating armies; creating and sustaining whole worlds by the vapor of his breath. I’m clinging to that notion right now: that somethings can be made out of nothings; that what feels impossible to my imagination is not impossible to God.

This, more than anything else, is what’s giving me hope: hope for change, hope for the future, hope in the middle messiness of life. It’s the hope and truth that God is bigger and more encompassing than anything I can fathom. And that the author of the world is greater than the laws of nature, the statistical improbabilities, and the losses that seem to confine it.

“Jesus looked at them and said, ‘with man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.’” —Matthew 19:26

“For nothing will be impossible with God.” —Luke 1:37

“Is anything too hard for the LORD? I will return to you at the appointed time next year, and Sarah will have a son." —Genesis 18:14

“I am the Lord, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?” —Jeremiah 32:27

“And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.” —Hebrews 11:6

“I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted.” —Job 42:2

“Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.” —Luke 1:36-37

“As it is written: “I have made you a father of many nations.” He is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed—the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not.” —Romans 4:17

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” —Isaiah 43:18-19

and finally,

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever!” —Ephesians 3:20

A not-so-finished list, but a list nonetheless.

( s e l a h — a m e n )

March 19, 2024 (faith for today)

I’m always so astonished when people declare, with seeming certainty, that they know exactly what God is up to in their lives. How he’s moving, what he’s doing, and which doors they expect him to open next. I must look absolutely dumbfounded in their presence as they talk—with my furrowed brow and dropped jaw. Meanwhile, my mind runs circles on overtime, trying to make sense of what’s going on around me. Most days I have absolutely no clue.

I’m not sure what this says about me, or my relationship with God. Surely it could be better, closer, more intimate… if it was those things, would I still feel as in-the-dark about his plans for my life? Maybe. Because even when I look back on seasons when my heart was so sure, so surrendered and honest before him… I still didn’t have a clue. When I felt sure he was zigging, that’s when he zagged. When I felt sure he would open certain doors, that’s when the doors closed and a random, forgotten window off to the side started creaking open.

God and I have an odd relationship. I can never quite figure him out. I wish I could predict, with any level of certainty, the future. My future. How he is moving and what he’s up to. The end result and final destination of my time here on earth.

But, alas. I am not God. It’s not my job to know the future. At this I sigh, and remember the Israelites, stumbling through the desert on their way to the promised land. Complaining, of course, just like me. It’s a sobering thought—that our routes, and the time it takes to get to our destination, could be (at least in part) determined by our poor attitudes.

God, help us (help me) to wander well—to trust you in the process, ever more deeply and with greater sincerity of heart. Help us turn our grumblings into prayers, accented with remembrance and praise of who you’ve been, who you are, and who you will always continue to be. Sustain us with bits of sweet manna, just enough faith for this present day. Help us understand that this, our daily bread, is truly enough.

Faith for today. Amen amen amen.

January 10, 2023

Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake, California

My new year didn’t start off with a bang. Well — aside from some fireworks that shone bright, like all my high hopes, in the 2023 sky. This year, I made no resolutions, no new habits, and found no solitary ‘word’ sufficient enough to guide me through my next twelve months. My new year started off plainly— in the company of friends and with a cup of Thai tea. (Thai tea is delicious, by the way.)

Barely a week into January, and I’ve also made a mess of my home. The dishes are, once again, piled high in the sink. There’s new carpet in my bedroom, but my bed itself sits in the living room. Dresses hang idly from lopsided hangers — flat across the guest room bed, instead of in my closet. However, my alarm clock is in the closet, sitting high atop a pile of folded sweaters. My framed sunrise photo of Fallen Leaf Lake, California is stacked on my kitchen table. So is my jewelry box. And my bedside lamp is… actually, where is my lamp?

Just like that, disorganization has burrowed its way into my January, finding comfort and refuge between the four walls and littered floorboards of my tiny, quaint home.

Even better: I turn 31 this weekend. But come Saturday, I might still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room.

I don’t necessarily want to ring in my birthday on the living room floor. But I’m realizing this possibility also speaks to a deeper yearning that I seem to always carry: for the day that not only my room/house/kitchen, but my entire life, feels finally put together, complete, and unbroken.

I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate this— this in-between, this messy middle, this life full of seams and uneven sutures. Except that I’ve just kept living, despite it. I resist the inner voice that chides, telling me that life must be perfect in order for it to be worthy. That I can’t enjoy my life as it is, longings and all. But, deep joy and unruly clutter can exist simultaneously, and for that I am grateful. God is writing a story more beautiful than I could imagine, and more impactful than I know.

This is true for every child of God.

Come Saturday, I might really still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room. But I’ll wake up and there will be a cat at my feet, soft blankets around my legs, and light beaming through my windows.

And I’m going to be perfectly pleased with it.