putting God in a box (again)

I’m putting God in a box again.

It’s actually something I’m exceptionally good at. I stick him in the cardboard box, seal it tight, and wipe my hands on my pants, feeling confident that I’m in control once again. 

I coax myself into keeping this control. I pick it up gently, weighing it carefully in my hands. It feels heavier than it was before. It’s also more slippery than it used to be, and I feel it trying to slide through my fingers, so I tighten the hold I have on it. 

My fingers start to hurt from holding onto it so tightly. I can feel it slipping, and I clench my fists firmer, desperately trying to secure it inside of my hands. 

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my muscles are cramped, my fingers silently screaming from the throbbing ache of holding on so tightly. 

I tilt my head back, almost feeling dizzy from the pain, and shout, “God, where are you when I need you the most? Where are you when it feels my control is slipping through my fingertips? Where are you when I’m hurting? Where are you?” 

I’m angry now. Angry because I can’t seem to hold onto anything anymore. Angry because in my time of need God is nowhere to be found. I’m angry. And I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. 

It shatters into a million pieces. I don’t even realize that my fingers have let it slip, and I look down on the floor and see my control fragmented. Scattered. Shattered.

I start to cry. My body is weary from holding onto it for so long, and I feel betrayed that God didn’t come and help me. 

I rub my joints, trying to loosen out the ache. The tears are frustration. I sit on the floor. Alone.

And then I see it. The box. The stupid, stupid box. The box I put God into when I assumed control. 

Of course he didn't come when I called. I had pushed him away. And though I know he's bigger than a box, I also know he gives me the choice whether to hand over the control, or try to do it all by myself.

I want to open it. And I don’t want to open it. Because I know I was wrong. And I was foolish. And I was scared. And I’m ashamed I didn’t trust him with all that I am. 

I slowly walk over to the box. I carefully take off the tape, and lift the lid. I close my eyes, because I can’t bear to see his holy face. 

“I’m hurting.” I say. “I’m hurting. And I’m scared if I give you the control, things won’t happen the way I want them to.”

I breathe long. 

“And I’m ashamed.” I whisper, biting my lip so hard I almost draw blood. “I’m ashamed I don’t trust you as much as I should. As much as I want.” 

I gradually open my eyes. He’s there. Palms spread wide, my broken pieces in his hands. 

He shows me the shattered remains as if to say, is this what you wanted?

I shake my head. Smile sadly. “I know. How is my control working any better?” 

I hear him --

If you let it go, I’ll be the One to hold it together. 

If you let yourself go, I’ll be the One to hold you together.

If you let Me go, who will hold anything together? 

Tears pool in my eyes - because this dying to self is not easy - but I close his fingers around the pieces and he holds my broken self in his hands. 

“You can have it.” I tell him. “You can have me.” I say. “You can have it all.”

(This is a figurative story I have created. I cannot physically put God into a box, but when I refuse to give him control over my life, it’s as though I have made him small and hidden him away from me. This is simply a metaphor for how I want to hand my life over fully to Christ.)

.

why I didn't write for 81 days

It was cold.

I woke up and shivered, yanking my white comforter tighter around me. I hadn’t forgotten what had happened the day before. It sank in with clarity and vengeance, hitting me afresh even before my eyelids fluttered open. Tears coursed down my cheeks, soaking into my pillow.

I sighed; a long, deep, soul rattling sigh.  

The day earlier began as normal. It even seemed good. That morning, as I drank my coffee and snuggled beneath my covers, I quietly asked Jesus to give me something to write about. What he gave me was not what I had imagined. 

My mom and I were going to run some errands together that day, (we have a slight obsession with Target) and the first errand was a quick doctor’s appointment for her. She had gotten some tests taken, and the results were back.

The appointment was at 11:40 on the morning of January 10th. There weren’t very many people in the waiting room, only an older gentleman who silently flipped through a magazine. We waited in the waiting room until 12:06, and then she was called in. I didn’t go in with her. 

I tried to read my book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and Lamott talked about noticing the details, becoming an observer. I noticed the nurses huddled in the corner behind the glass wall that separates the patients from the staff, and I could hear them talking about how one of them was taking her daughter to see Les Miserables on stage that night in Toronto. 

And then I thought of my mom.

I suddenly got a cold flush - the cold, sticky, sweaty flush you get when you have a fever. A sickly feeling deepened inside of my belly. I wondered how those nurses could talk about our favourite musical while I was sure that my beautiful mom was receiving some sort of horrible news a few walls away.

At 12:31 my mom emerged, the doctor close behind. I couldn’t read my mom’s facial expression.

“Let’s go,” she said to me. I gathered our things and she walked towards the door, and I looked behind me and saw the doctor. I gave her a sad wave, because I knew what was coming, and we locked eyes and I knew then and there, and she nodded her head at me and I turned to the door and followed my mom out into the snowy driveway.

My mom took three steps and then looked at me and cried, “Liza, I have cancer.” Her voice broke and she shrugged her arms, her palms to the sky, hands spread wide, and I said, “Oh Mama”, and we fell together in a heap of tears and tangled arms and we cried and held one another tight. We held each other for a long time.

And then we took more steps down the driveway but we stopped and I said, “We have to pray”, and we gathered each other close and begged Jesus to please hold us. Please, please hold us. 

Because all at once our world was crashing down around us and it felt like there was nothing concrete, nothing certain that we could hold onto - and as we got into the car, tears were streaming down her face and she said she had to tell my dad. 

My mom is so strong. She is so, so strong.

When she got off the phone with my dad, she handed me 2 pieces of paper - one for a blood test, and one for a chest x-ray. She needed to get them both done as soon as possible. On the bottom of the chest x-ray paper, the doctor had scrawled: early diagnosis breast cancer. I stared at those horrible words and I wanted to rip the cancer out of her body with my own bare hands. And if that didn’t work, I wanted it to be me in place of her.

I had thought I’d prepared myself for the diagnosis of cancer. I had thought about it a lot beforehand, ever since she’d told me about the lumps, and though I thought it might happen, I never really thought it might happen. 

I watched her get her blood taken, and then together we walked down the hall to the x-ray office. We waited for a few minutes and then she was called in to get her x-ray taken. I saw a lady crying and wondered if she had cancer, too. I saw other people smiling and wondered why on earth they had the right to smile when my world was crumbling.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face and when I looked into the mirror I saw bright green, puffy eyes and a red, swollen, speckled face. I sighed. 

When we got home, my dad wrapped his arms around my mom for a very long time. 

“This sucks.” I said later as we sat in our family room together, quietly contemplating this new reality.

My mom nodded. “You’re right. This does suck.”

“We have to rely on God.” My dad said. “He’s all we have to rely on.” 

In my heart I prayed that the cancer was contained, that it hadn’t spread, that this nightmare would be over. I told Jesus I wasn’t happy with Him, and I asked Him why, why, why.

But we would rely on Him. Because He’s all we have to rely on.

The morning of January 10th, I asked Jesus to give me something to write about. This was not exactly what I had in mind. 

81 days later, and I’m finally writing about it. It took a while to allow the rawness of the situation to heal a little. My mom’s currently doing chemotherapy. We’ve seen Jesus through this cancer journey in incredible, tangible ways. We’ve learned a lot. And this is only the beginning.

We continue to trust in the comforting arms of Christ, and lean on the hope of Jesus. It’s the best possible place to be. 

.

faith is a choice

In approximately 4 days, my friend and I will be running a dance/music day camp for roughly 100 children. These children are around 6-25 years old. Some do not know English at all, some know English a little.Originally, I was coming to Rwanda to be able to help with this camp, and to just lend a hand here and there. Though I’ve worked at summer camp in Canada for 5 summers, I didn’t know anything about working at a camp in the heart of Africa. A girl from Los Angeles normally comes to Rwanda to run the camp, but this year was unable to. So now it’s up to my friend and I. Neither of us have ever done anything like this before. And as I look into the coming week ahead, I know I have a choice.

1) I could become overwhelmed at this slightly (extremely) daunting task which is at hand. Picture this: 2 very white girls running a camp for over 100 very African children. 1 of us teaching dance (you can figure out pretty quickly that’s not me!), and 1 of us teaching music and singing (that’s me). During the morning there will be worship and preaching, and during the afternoon we will each take a group of 50+ kids and teach them. I could get scared because these kids don’t speak good English, if any English at all, and I could feel overcome with doubt that this camp just is not going to work.

OR

2) I could choose faith. I could choose to believe that God had me in Rwanda for this specific moment. I could choose to believe that God keeps swinging all these doors wide open for a reason. I could choose to believe that this camp will be a miracle. Because at this moment this camp doesn’t seem possible, or likely, or practical. But it does seem miraculous. And I’ve always wanted to live to see a miracle.

So in this moment, and in the next few moments, and all next week and the week after that, I will choose to have faith. At the end of the day, does it matter if they’ve learned singing techniques or proper dance moves? Or does it matter that we love them, and care for them, and want them to know how much Jesus loves them and cares for them?

This is my new philosophy:

“Seek first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness and then all these things will be given to you. So do not worry about tomorrow. Let tomorrow worry about itself. Living faithfully is a large enough task for today.” - Matthew 6:33

So choose faith. Because really, what else is there to choose?.

practicing forgiveness

I’m not quite sure how to put into words what I am feeling. I’m grieving a loss I’ve never known. 5000 losses, actually. I just got back from going to a church memorial, about an hour outside of Kigali. It’s in a smaller village, and 19 years ago the church was a thriving Catholic sanctuary. The doors were open as I got to the front of the church, and they seemed to beckon and welcome me in. I couldn’t shake the fact that those black barred doors that invited me in were the same doors in which greeted five thousand Rwandans to their grave.

As I entered the church, I saw rows of pews and benches that were flooded with the clothing of the people who died there. The mounds of shirts, pants and shoes stacked on to one another filled the entire church. I stood still and thought to myself, “Many people died right where I am standing.” There was not much room to walk around because there was so much clothing.

I wept.

Tears streamed down my face and it was hard for me to see through my blurry vision. I glanced up and saw many holes in the roof. Small bursts of light gleamed through, creating pockets of sunshine along the dusty clothing covered benches. The cheerful light seemed so wrong in that place of sorrow. The holes in the ceiling were produced from grenades that were thrown through the windows. I looked behind me, and the glass from the windows were broken. As I looked down the stairs I saw shattered sculls that matched the shattered windows.

I sat on a stair and looked out at the altar. The room smelled like mold and dust and death. A statue of Mary with her hands folded together gazed down at the disintegrated bodies. A place that was once supposed to be a shelter of safety was suddenly turned into a killing field. It made me feel physically ill to think that a room expected to be used to worship the God of the universe was instead an area used to destroy His creation.

I made my way outside and entered a mass grave. I walked down the stairs into a long narrow hallway. It was dark, and tall and had brick walls with cobwebs covering each corner. There were rows of shelves, and on the shelves there were skulls, bones, and coffins. Hundreds of coffins. I came to a shelf with smaller coffins and it dawned on me - that row was for the babies. I couldn’t breathe then, and I had to get out of the grave because I was beginning to suffocate. I thought that surely the door of the grave would close in on me and I would be locked in there forever. It was eerie and awful and I felt terrible for feeling creeped out, but I couldn’t handle the fact that 5000 bodies were lying in their death beds beside me.

I appreciate how Rwanda doesn’t cover up their despair - instead leaving everything the way it happened, completely raw. I think we can learn from this. We tend to cover things up, sugar coat them, making them pretty and pristine. But perhaps this only hides our grief and our sorrow. Perhaps true healing comes from the raw brutality of the situation. Perhaps once we accept that rawness, we finally begin to heal. But then again, I truly do not know and I almost hope I never do.

That was only one church. Only five thousand people out of the one million who were killed. My question is: how do they forgive? How do you begin to forgive someone who killed your family? or raped your mother? or hacked your father into pieces?

I talked with a missionary the other day about this, and she told me she asked a Rwandan man if he has forgiven those who killed his family. His response was, “I am practicing forgiveness. Everyday I choose to practice forgiving those who killed my loved ones, and then someday I know forgiveness will come. If you practice something long enough, one day it will be perfected.”

.

legacy of love

"My loved ones, let us devote ourselves to loving one another. Love comes straight from God, and everyone who loves is born of God, and truly knows God. Anyone who does not love does not love God, because God is love." - 1 John 4:7 

 This is my anthem, my motto, my mantra. Or at least I want it to be. I want to embody love, and though I know I never can fully exemplify the essence of love, I want to come as close as I possibly can to be like Jesus. Like God. Like Love. When I read this verse yesterday afternoon, I knew what I wanted my life to be - a devotion to loving people. For so long I have tried to figure out what my life’s purpose is, and when I read this verse I realized my purpose has been sitting right in front of me this entire time. It’s simple really. Love God. Love others. Funny how it took me going all the way to Africa to realize it. I see Jesus everywhere here. I feel His breath in the wind that brushes against my cheek; I feel His hand curve around mine when my fingers are entwined with a small child’s. It’s not that I don’t feel Him in Canada, it’s just that He is so evident to me here. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never needed Him as much as I do right now. He has quickly become my comfort. (Jolly Ranchers and Werther candies can only go so far, and then comes Jesus.) It’s not that I’m not happy here - I am - it’s just that everything is so different from home. The beds and showers and food and people are all different. And that’s not a bad thing, but it’s so comforting to know that Jesus will never change, or leave me. That He will always be with me, because He is love..

saying goodbye to fear

Today I watched my fears fly away.I wrote them down on scraps of paper, tied them to balloons, lifted my hands and gave them to Jesus. As they fluttered from my fingertips, I watched as those fears soared higher and higher til I could see them no longer. I released them from the tight hold they had on my heart and handed them over to Jesus. It’s amazing how freeing it is to let Jesus take away your fears. It used to feel like those things would swallow me up and eat me whole. Though writing them on a piece of paper and tying them to a balloon string doesn’t automatically take them permanently away, Jesus can. And He will. If you ask Him. Today my steps feel softer, my heart feels stronger, and my shoulders feel lighter. Because today, I watched my fears fly fly fly away..

I am sorry

Today, I need to apologize.

I have grown up in a wonderful home, with two incredible parents who love Jesus, and me, with the entirety of their hearts. Jesus has never seemed strange to me. He has been the topic of more conversations then I can remember at my home growing up. I went to Christian private school as a kid, and learned Bible verses once a week that I ever so perfectly recited to my teachers. As I grew older, I went to youth group, led the worship team, and said all the appropriate answers in small groups.

Fine, I’ll admit it: I was a goodie-goodie.

But today, I need to apologize to you. I need to apologize to anyone whom I have ever spoken to. Anyone who I have ever been friends with. Anyone whom I have ever been unkind to, and I know there are quite a few in this category.

Though I have grown up in a wonderful home, surrounded by people who love and adore Jesus, I have never been like Jesus.

And though I told God I was ready to truly follow Him almost nine years ago, I didn’t truly surrender myself to Him until this year.

You see, for so long I believed that I had to be perfect to be like Jesus. I had to be the girl who had it all together, who knew all the answers. The girl who grew up in the perfect Christian home, with two perfect Christian siblings, and two perfect Christian parents who were and are amazing examples to the people around them.

It turns out that girl is so terribly annoying.

After I grew very tired of trying to be perfect, I tried to be real with Jesus. But I had put on an act for what seemed like such a long time, that I wasn’t quite sure how to just be myself with Him. I was worried that though Jesus may love me, He might not like me. The art of attempting perfection wasn’t working, but the thought of being my lame self was too terrifying to try. So I began to push Him out of my life. I filled my life with a million other things. I tried to get my life to be as busy as humanly possible, so I wouldn’t have to face Jesus. It’s a funny thing - filling up a Jesus-shaped hole with things that are no where near as beautiful or fulfilling as Jesus.

And then, this past year happened. The year of what felt like to me: nothingness. The year I finally allowed my Lord and Saviour to truly take up residence in my heart. I “took the year off”, a phrase in which I have grown to hate since the majority of people assume you are taking a year long vacation. It was my year of sacred solidarity. I came to a screeching halt because I realized I had no idea where my life was going. A lightbulb of recognition flickered on inside of me and I knew my life could go nowhere without Jesus.

I finally realized: perfection is not how people see Jesus. An act of “being good, being right, being righteous” is not how people see Jesus. In fact, I think most people took one look at me and ran away. And hiding is not how people see Jesus, either. Hiding is simply a gesture of cowardice.

People see Jesus through indescribable love, all-powerful peace, and never ending grace.

I didn’t have true love or make true peace or offer true grace to anyone. I just acted the part. And no one can ever see Jesus through a fake, in genuine performance.

So I need to apologize to you. I am so sorry that I did not show you Jesus. What you saw in me was not Jesus. It was just selfish me. Jesus is so much better then that. He is the definition of Love, the authentic Peacemaker, and the perfect illustration of absolute Grace.

This year I fell undeniably in love with Jesus. Most days I still don’t show love, peace or grace to anyone, but I’m working on it. And I’m not perfect and I never will be. But now I’m not striving towards perfection. I’m striving towards being like Jesus. And it turns out, He loves me and He likes me. And He loves and likes you, too. He actually likes you quite a lot.

Now I’m holding Jesus’ hand instead of locking him out of the doors of my heart. Let me tell you... it’s so much better when you don’t have to figure out life on your own.

“Real, true religion from God the Father’s perspective is about caring for the orphans and widows who suffer needlessly and resisting the evil influence of the world.” - James 1:27

.

simply endure

It’s just over three weeks before I depart for Rwanda, and this morning I feel sick with anxiety. I’m not really an anxious or worrisome person. I love spontaneity, going with the flow, and having adventures. I don’t like staying at home, and I get energized being around people. I like being honest, but I don’t like being weak.Well, today I’m feeling weak. I’m feeling like I can’t do this. I feel like I’m literally going to be sick to my stomach. Today I am nervous - so nervous - to step on a plane by myself and head to Amsterdam, then to Rwanda. Today I am nervous - so nervous - to spend two months in a country entirely foreign to me. Today I am nervous - so nervous - to leave my precious family behind. I love my family. And I’d love to pack them up and take them with me. I know God wants me to go to Rwanda. He has made that abundantly clear to me. But today, I don’t want to go. Please don’t take this literally - I do want to go. But I’m nervous. And I am scared. I’ve never wanted to do something more in my life, and I’ve never wanted to run away from something as much as I do right now. Perhaps this is God’s way of stretching me. I’ve heard his calling sometimes isn’t comfortable. And I’m not even IN Africa yet! This morning I was reading my Bible, reading Hebrews, and this verse jumped out at me: “Simply endure, for when you have done as God requires of you, you will receive the promise.” (Hebrews 10:36) My stomach twisted, a sigh escaped my lips, and I looked up at God and said, “Okay.” It’s funny, because our youth group was just at a conference with the theme being “Endure”. I didn’t think much of it, because I haven’t had to endure through anything before. Until this Friday morning moment. Simply endure, for when you have done as God requires of you, you will receive the promise.  I’m doing what God requires of me. Check. I’m going to attempt to simply endure by forcing my body onto the plane. Half-check. I will receive the promise. I wonder what promise that is. A promise of safety, security, of having a friend, of having a companion? I’m so selfish and stupid. I think I have to do this trip all on my own when my Friend, Redeemer, and Father will be with me every step of the way. It’s time my friends. Time for me to start to simply endure..

be slow to anger and rich in love

…just a quick note on this post. I was misinformed on the child that was killed. Unfortunately, that was a heartless hoax, and the child was not running in the race, as children are not allowed. However, there was an eight year old boy killed in the sidelines waiting for his father to cross the finish line. I am so quick to judge. I am so quick to write off this world, and to write off the people that populate it. Yesterday’s tragedy made me sad, and angry, and frankly, furious. I was enraged at the fact that someone (or someones) would go out of their way to hurt innocent people. I was shocked as I watched the news and saw the bombs go off, but I was absolutely seething when I found out a faultless little eight year old child was killed…a baby who was running in the marathon in honour of the Sandy Hook kids. It disgusted me. I walked around yesterday, really mad at the world. Really, really mad. I asked Jesus, “Why do we live in such a broken world? How come there are stupid, cruel people in this world who would do something like that?” Jesus reminded me that He loves those people, too. He also reminded me that this world isn’t just full of broken people… and that some people are good. I am in the midst of raising money to go to Rwanda. Last night, I was emailing a few of my friends, and asking them for spiritual and financial support for this upcoming trip. To be honest, I didn’t really expect anything. Well Jesus showed me last night how there are really GOOD people in this world. One girl told me she didn’t have anything to give me. But, she could sing. (And boy, oh boy, can this girl sing!!) She decided that she was going to busk for me. She told me she wanted to help me, and she decided to use her beautiful voice as a vessel to help me get to Rwanda. Now, I ask you, is that the quality of a cruel, broken girl? No. Probably 10 minutes later, I received another email. It was a girl from my old high school, and this is what she sent me:

     “I know this is going to sound crazy but I went to the bookstore at my school today to get a school hoodie…looked a the price tag, decided against it. I was thinking, that money could go to something much more valuable than that! So I want to give you the money I was going to spend on that sweater.”

I started to cry when I saw that message. It was as if Jesus was sitting beside me on my couch saying, “See Aliza? Yes, this world is broken. Yes, this world is hurting. But not every person you see is cold and cruel.”

I am a huge work in progress. I am working on not judging, or making assumptions or writing people off. I am working on being slow to anger, and rich, rich, rich in love..