When God gives you what you need before you even know you need it

It’s strange, when you first meet someone and immediately know you’re going to be friends with them. I’ve met people before and have known in my heart that I’m supposed to pray for them, but it was an entirely different sort of knowing when I met Cass.

It was late winter, those months when the Earth is trying to decide if she wants to stay frozen or dive into spring. I had started a new job, and quite honestly, was frustrated about where my life was headed. By headed, I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, and if I was going somewhere, I sure wasn’t getting there fast.

My plan was to get my novel published — which was proving to be more difficult than I thought. I was doing my best to be faithful, and I’m learning faithfulness often looks like taking a step forward. So I sucked in my pride and set my writing aside until evenings; I took a step forward and chose the logical thing: I got a job.

I was confused. I didn’t want to be working another minimum wage job.

I wanted my book to be published. I wanted to be writing and doing art full time. Didn’t God see my dreams and plans? Didn’t He understand what I wanted so desperately? I thought I had it all figured out: my career, my future . . . and yet there I was, feeling quite discouraged about how my life was seemingly going the opposite way I had planned.

Then I met Cass.

I had been working my new job for a week or so, and Cass had been away for a couple of days. But on that specific day we ended up working together. She came up to me and introduced herself. She was kind to me — a genuine kindness. Still, she was reserved, and for some reason I kept thinking I hope someday she trusts me. I couldn’t understand why I was thinking that when I didn’t even know who she was. We talked for a few moments, and throughout our conversation, something inside me shifted.

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To grace, and grieving when you are hurt

i.

I preface this by saying that I’m still not entirely sure how I feel regarding what I am writing about. I’ve been talking to Jesus about this recently, and by talking I mean I've been sighing a lot and saying incomprehensible words. I just trust he understands how I feel. As I write this I'm eating cheesecake, hoping it makes me braver. Dessert can do that, right?

I'm scared to write this because I don't have the words perfected. I'm scared to offend people, and although I hate the idea of being a people-pleaser, I think I probably am one. I love people a lot, and I love Jesus more than anything, but I'm still afraid my thoughts and feelings aren't going to come across the way I hope they will. I suppose I just have to start writing and see what comes out of it.

ii.

A few weeks ago I spent the day alone. I felt sick and heavy, as if my bones were weighing me down. If I had gone swimming I surely would have sunk. My stomach was twisting and I seemed nervous and shaky. I thought, if I let myself, I could cry all day. I took a shower and prayed, realizing I had inadvertently spent the day grieving.

I have been a Christian for almost twelve years and somedays it feels like I have just begun. There are days where I feel as if I've hardly moved forward, and days where I feel like I'm doing okay.

Then there are days where I mourn the fact that we are humans attempting to depict who Jesus is, and that none of us will ever get that right.

I have been hurt by people who love Jesus. Certainly we as human beings are not perfect. None of us, Christian or otherwise, have our lives even somewhat pulled together. This is a fact that I know in my core. But more and more recently, I have been deeply saddened by how hurt I have been by people who love Jesus.

I thought that wouldn't happen anymore. But still it does.

iii.

I have prayed about this a lot. I have shaken with anger. I have said to my friends, "Why do people think shaming other people is an okay thing to do?" I have said to Jesus, "Why does this happen still, particularly coming from people who love you?"

God showed me that most of the time people aren't intentionally trying to be hurtful. I think once in awhile they are, but for now let's give the world the benefit of the doubt. They think that what they are doing is right, but in doing so may accidentally be evoking shame or guilt. Their intentions may be kind, but still we are hurt. I keep asking Jesus how he feels about this.

iv.

In no way, shape, or form am I in a position to judge anyone. None of us are. And maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm too emotional or feel things too deeply. It's true that I'm not a Biblical scholar or theologian, but I am a girl who loves Jesus deeply, and I follow him and take what he says seriously.

I believe that there is nothing we could do or say that could mess us up in the eyes of God. I believe that we are loved, truly. I believe that there is an overflow of grace, an overflow that is quite literally never ending. Humanity has a hard time with grace, but Jesus doesn't.

I was out with a friend last week, a friend decades older than me, and she told me something her spiritual director recently told her: when you have been set free, you are free indeed. Your fear, your shame, your disappointment may return over time for a moment or two, but you don't stay there and you don't own that anymore. When you have been set free, you are free indeed. I kept nodding my head while tears welled up in my eyes.

Yes, I thought. Yes. 

v.

More than anything this is what I would like to tell you: I am sorry if you have been hurt, especially by someone who loves Jesus. I think most of the time the people in this world are trying their best, but sometimes it doesn't work out that way. This I know -- shame or guilt is not something that comes from Jesus. I will never agree with someone who says the opposite.

You are free and you are loved, and there is absolute grace for you.

That's something I have to remember again each day: over and over and over, there is grace.

When shame visits you at three in the morning

Shame woke me up at three in the morning. My eyes flew open and I felt as though I hadn't yet slept. Suddenly I was wide awake and acutely aware of the shame wrapped like a blanket around me.

It was late and I felt like the smallest human on earth. I made my way into the fetal position, my white bedspread crumpled beside me, a tangible example of how crumpled I felt within.

"I don't understand," I whispered to Jesus. "I have dealt with my insecurities. I have come to terms that I am enough as I am. Why do I feel so small? So worthless?"

My shame thrives at three in the morning, when the wind is banging my blinds against the wall, when the darkness is at its peak. Like a boa constrictor, she snakes around me, squeezing. Soon I am poured out and exhausted.

Shame tells me I am not enough. Shame tells me my words will not be read. Shame tells me my work, my hands, my life will not produce anything meaningful. But Shame is a good, smooth liar. At three in the morning it's easy to believe her.

I closed my eyes and took a deep, clear breath, all the while silently begging Jesus to unravel me from the tangled mess I had found myself in. I asked myself the following: what is my feeling, and what is my truth? There's a difference, I know, between feelings and truth. My feelings don't dictate what is true. It's just harder to remember that when I'm in the midst of feeling things strongly.

My feeling: I am not enough.

My truth: I am. I am. I am.

My feeling: My words will not be read. Instead they will stay where they are, sitting in the bottom drawer of my white book shelf. I will be on the tireless pursuit of attempting to put my words out into the world for the rest of my life.

My truth: My words are already being read.

My feeling: What I produce is not meaningful.

My truth: My life is meaningful and sacred and significant, and because my work stems from my life, my work is important too (even when it feels like saving the world is the only adequate measure of importance).

Shame does not decide who I am, although that's trickier to declare when your heart is weary and Shame has a good, strong grasp on you.

Shame woke me up at three in the morning and then my alarm woke me up at seven. I looked at my room, now bathed in light instead of the darkness which had accompanied me earlier. I gathered my truths instead of my feelings and held them close against me for the rest of the day.

And I said, "Jesus, teach me what is true, teach me what is true, teach me what is true."

Because even when I don't feel enough, I'll hold on like a mad woman to the truth that I am.

Let my life speak louder than my words

Their only source of water was a three-hour walk from their huts and homes.

I was eighteen years old and knew nothing about the world, except what I saw in front of me: dozens of Rwandan children walking to fetch their jugs of water, and they had invited me along. Of course I obliged and followed behind them while the blazing African sun seemed to scorch hotter every second. I was feeling too much — too white, too privileged, and far too out of place. I was holding a water bottle in my hands and guilt wrapped around me like a suffocating fur coat.

Who was I to drink water so freely and easily while the kids around me had to traipse for hours to collect theirs?

We didn’t speak much on the walk. Their words were in Kinyarwanda, mine were not. When we arrived back at the village after the agonizingly hot and tiring trip, the pastor of their village came to me, his wife not far behind him. They took our hands and led us to their home, a humble thatched hut with benches pulled around a small table. Huge heapings of potatoes and cooked bananas were placed in front of us, and the pastor’s wife shone hospitality in a way I had never seen before. When she handed me my plate, I almost cried.

They had nothing, yet they gave me everything.

We could hardly communicate with one another — at least not in the typical way I’d been taught. But through that meal where they offered me literally all that they had, the pastor and his wife in a small Rwandan village shared with me two things: their very lives and the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I saw Jesus in them, and we barely spoke. They taught me that our lives can speak more than words ever can.

May our lives be a poured out offering, an emptying of us and what we desire. May we love so deeply that we reach out our hands and grab the person in front of us, bring them into our homes and give them all that we have.

That, I believe, is where the Gospel is most evident.

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Here's to choosing you belong

I spoke at a young adults gathering last night. My best friend and I drove two hours, and the entire drive my stomach continued to plunge lower and lower, as if I were on the DropZone at Wonderland. I swear my vital organs were mixing themselves up within me. My liver and lungs and heart and kidneys seemed to be trading places with each other. Stop it, I told my organs. They ignored me and kept moving around.

A few of my friends were leading worship before I was set to speak, so when I arrived at the church I saw kind, familiar faces. "They seem very natural up there," I thought as I watched them practice. They looked like they belonged on that stage -- humble, but still confident. Modest, but still sure of themselves.

I placed my hand against my stomach and tried to settle my nerves.

I don't belong here.

The thought came from out of nowhere. But like the pattern of thoughts I've experienced before, once one thought seeps in, a dozen more follow.

I had prayed over my talk for a month. I was going to be vulnerable and share exactly what I've been feeling recently -- that waiting is hard, that rejection is utterly crappy, and that faithfulness looks like a little bit of all of that: waiting, taking a step forward, and growth.

I was prepared. I was ready. The preparation wasn't the problem. The problem was my overwhelming mind telling me that I didn't belong.

//

Last week I was away for a few days at a leadership retreat. I felt like I didn't belong there either. It was me, a writer and artist, among twenty-five pastors and worship pastors and youth pastors and ministry organizers. I sat there and learned far more about leading, and healing, and freedom than I thought I would, but I still had that niggling sense of unbelonging deep within me.

Someone kindly called me out on that. I'm going to tell you what he told me.

What to do when you feel like you don't belong:

When you are invited to the table, and you feel like you don't belong, you have one moment to feel that way. You can ask yourself, "what am I doing here?" and then, once your one moment is finished, you move on. Once you've moved on you say, "I'm here now, in this place where I have been invited. What can I offer to the people around me?" And then you hold your hands out, and you understand instinctually that you were created uniquely with strengths and gifts, and you offer your very best.

Even if you feel like you don't belong, you choose to move forward. You choose that you belong. Because God has made you intricately with strengths and gifts and purposes and abilities that you alone were designed for. It has taken me far too long to believe that.

//

Looking out at the young adults who were coming to sit down in the church, I watched their faces pass by me. I was going to be speaking to them in a matter of moments -- about how faithfulness looks an awful lot like planting a garden: carefully and gently tending each day, hoping and praying something is growing deep within the ground below you.

You don't belong here, whispered harsh and raw against my brain. I paused and closed my eyes. I took my one moment. I asked myself, "what am I doing here?" and then my moment was finished and I was moving on. I added gratitude to that too. I said, "Thank you, Jesus, for bringing me here, to this very place, in this very moment."

I was there then, in that place where I had been invited. I had so much to offer the people around me. So I rose from my seat, and I stepped on the stage, and I understood instinctually that I was created uniquely with strengths, and gifts, and purposes and abilities.

And then I opened my hands and offered my very best.

When you're afraid but free

I am sitting on Lake Rosseau, just me on a dock looking out at a lake.

I am attending a leadership retreat and more often than not, I do not feel like a leader. But I showed up because that is what you do when God asks you to go somewhere.

I woke up early this morning, no alarm. I simply woke up feeling oddly refreshed. It was early when I looked at the clock and I figured I could get a few more hours of sleep in, except suddenly I had this unquenchable need to get down to the water. So I packed up my Bible and this notebook and found the loneliest, most outstretched dock I could find.

The water is both soothing and scaring me.

The lake stretches so far; so very, very far, I think. I wonder if I could ever swim it all. If I could dive in, hands above my head, holding my breath for minutes or hours and swim to the other side. Here I am: just me, this giant, soothing, scary body of water, Jesus, and all of my thoughts that are falling out the sides of my head.

Am I afraid of putting myself out there? Answer: yes.

Am I afraid of trying again and again and again, only to fail once more? Answer: yes.

Am I afraid of rejection? Answer: yes yes yes.

Am I afraid that I care more about succeeding according to the world's standards than I care about doing what God has for me? Answer: yes.

I am afraid of so many things, and the water slowly rocking the dock I am sitting on seems to make these fears more glaring.

I do not feel guilty. I do not feel shame. This, by God's grace, shows me progress. A year ago I would've simply wallowed in those two ominous feelings.

But today, this morning, the sun still peeking over the evergreen trees in front of me; the cool morning breeze finding its way softly around me, I am not guilty and I am not shamed.

I am afraid but still I'm free. I am aware of all that I need to surrender.

My shoes are off, my hands are open.

God is here, and so am I.

God shows up, and I will too.

I am afraid, but I will surrender, and I am free.

Here is how you find your wonder

Fireworks are popping outside of my window. Someone probably waited until today to get them 50% off, after the long weekend. They're smart people; fireworks are kind of expensive. But they're always worth it in my books. They do something inside of me when I watch them go off -- all sparkly and crackly and noisy and bright.

I am transformed into a five-year-old girl again, the same way I was transformed at Magic Kingdom last summer. I was stunned by everything I saw there, feeling fearless and small and entirely unstoppable. Don't you find that you only have glimpses of feeling that way? Of feeling that wonder? I want to hold onto it tightly before it slips through my fingers. Too often it seems as though the world crushes our wonder before we even realize our wonder was taking place. Or maybe it's not the world who crushes it. Maybe it's just me.

I can pinpoint times when I have felt wonder in this way -- the admiration, fascination, marvel, I'm-on-top-of-the-world sort of way: my first airplane ride to Rwanda, sitting on the top of Machu Picchu, standing under the stars, staring at the sea, watching the fireworks pop and loop higher and higher. I wish I could articulate more poetically, or at least more accurately, how I have felt in these times. All I can say is that in each occurrence my chest felt like it was filled with light, and that is when I know I am experiencing wonder.

Last night I sat on my blue lawn chair in my old hometown watching the fireworks go, and my chest filled with light again. I was thinking a lot of things: I was thinking how grateful I am that Jesus created emotions that can literally feel colourful and bright and beautiful. I was thinking how I wish I felt wonder more often. I was thinking how it seems as though every time I have felt wonder, it's because I have chosen gratitude.

So now I'm wondering if those two just might be connected. Does having gratitude mean having more wonder?

There have been too many times where God has given me opportunities and I have gone into them with a closed and ungrateful heart. I haven't felt wonder; I've felt bitterness and disappointment and possibly a sprinkle of resentment. None of those emotions reap anything kind or lovely.

I realized this today, while brushing my teeth. I thought: everything is better when I go in with a grateful heart. Everything changes when I alter my mindset from "I have to do this" to "I get to do this".

Everything changes.

The fireworks are still flying outside my breezy, open window, and I can't help but think that all I want is to keeping finding the wonder around me. But wonder doesn't just come from airplane rides to gorgeous places, or standing on mountaintops, or sitting in a blue lawn chair in your old hometown watching the fireworks fly.

Wonder comes from a place of gratitude, from thinking this life is a gift and not a burden. Tonight I step back and survey all God has given me -- this great, great life -- and as I take a deep breath the light is filling my chest again.

And this time the wonder isn't just from the fireworks.

Living fearlessly authentic (or trying to)

I have watched seven episodes of The Office while writing this. I've scrolled through the entire dress section of the Topshop website, despite the fact that they are all severely overpriced. I have eaten two chocolate chip cookies along with a cup of milk, and suffice it to say, I have procrastinated writing at all costs.

I text my friend, "I am writing." I feel like if I text her this, the words will be forced to come quicker and I can go to bed. Also: accountability. Also: sometimes it's easier for me to talk about writing than to do the actual writing itself.

"What are you writing about?" She replies.

I sigh and look at the journal I haven't touched in weeks, then back at the blank screen with the agonizing, and frankly condescending, blinking cursor that mocks me. "I have no idea."

Why do we write -- to inspire people? to tell our truth the best way we know how? to escape from how we are feeling inside? Tonight I ask myself that same question over and over and over again: why do you write, Aliza?

To live an authentic life.

That, to me, is the truest answer right now. It varies from time to time, but for now that's why I write. I want to live an authentic life -- fearlessly authentic, if we're being truthful. I'm realizing that doesn't mean I'm not scared, because Lord knows there are so many days where I'm scared of so many things. Recently it's been the utterly terrifying thing called vulnerability. Which I think feels less like bravery and more like hurling myself off a ledge. Unfortunately in order to be authentic, you have to be vulnerable. It's a two-step process, and all the guac and chips in the world won't make it easier. (Although guac and chips do make some things easier.)

The problem with writing blog posts is that in order to live an authentic life, you have to practice what you write. Maybe that's why I haven't written much lately.

I was telling my friend this the other day, while driving under a mix of stars and city lights. It was late. Or maybe it was just really, really early. I can't remember. But I told him the same sentiment I wrote above. I said to him, "I have a serious problem. If I write something, that means I have to live it. I mean, I guess I don't have to, but I'd like to be as authentic as I can be. It's hard to write things only to have to live them out."

He laughed and said, "Maybe that's what you should write about then. How hard it is to be authentic, but how much you'd like to try."

So this is what I'd like to say: it's hard to be authentic, but I would very much like to try.

Flannery O'Connor said all the things best that I wish I had said: “If I ever do get to be a fine writer, it will not be because I am a fine writer but because God has given me credit for a few of the things He kindly wrote for me.”

That's authenticity, if you ask me.

So I think I'll be scared, and I think I'll keep feeling like I'm hurling myself off a ledge when I'm experimenting in vulnerability, but I'll try to be authentic all the ways I know how. And, to steal from Flannery, if I ever do get to be a fine writer, it will not be because I am a fine writer, but because God has given me credit for a few of the things he kindly wrote for me.

On the day of your first art show

On the day of your first art show, you wake up smiling. Literally. You're surprised by this because all week you've been worrying: worrying you don't have enough art, worrying no one will show up, worrying you might have the date wrong. Your brain sometimes goes a bit nutty when something important is about to happen.

So you wake up grinning, and you get up and survey the artwork that's threatening to swallow the entirety of your bedroom. Eighteen canvases, hundreds of paper prints, even more cards, over a dozen notebooks, two globes, and a map. Your fingers have worked on all of these, and soon they'll be hung on a brick wall and people will come to see them. Or so you hope.

You go with your mom to the nail salon, because you bought high heels which show off your toes. When you return home, you go back to your room and gather together the materials you'll need to set up. For the past few weeks you've continually thought that no one will come to your show. You think it will flop, crash and burn, and every other sad cliche you can grab hold of. Positivity hasn't exactly been your forefront, and suddenly, as you're putting together your crates of prints, and piles of canvases, you feel the breath of God within you whisper, "I am giving you favour. Aliza, I am giving you favour."

You could cry because your faith is so small, so pitiful in spite of the goodness that has been poured over you. Your fickle human heart felt as though it would be far easier to doubt than to hold onto hope that God has good, kind plans for you. You were wrong, as per usual. You've sucker punched yourself in the chest, and when you retrieve your breath it's withering and fragile. You straighten your spine and thank God earnestly for his kind favour.

And then you go to your art show.

On the day of your first art show, God opens his arms wide and parades his grace through the loveliness of humans. When, what you estimate to be around ninety people walk through the doors to see your artwork, you are stunned. Stunned is an understatement, actually. If what you are feeling within manifested into actuality, you would have fallen flat on your face on the floor, unable to get up.

You are blown away by how much it means when people show up. God is always there, it's true, but he so visibly shows up when people show up for each other.

The next day you wake up smiling again. Your heart is so full, so grateful, so near exploding you wonder if you were to add anything more to your soul, it would overflow and brim over, and brim over, and brim over some more.

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDgEofbMpmk&feature=youtu.be[/embed]

When I found love by the sea

We had driven eight and a half hours — longer if you count how many times I had to stop and use the bathroom. (If you’re wanting to get somewhere quick, I’m not exactly the most ideal person to road trip with.) We drove from Ontario to Massachusetts, right across the state of New York, and the closer we got to the coast, the more I thought I could smell the salt rise from the sea.

The sea does something to me. It opens up a well inside of me — some deep, cavernous place I had forgotten about, and it brings out realizations and understandings that I hadn’t quite grasped before.

Cape Cod is nothing short of stunning. Despite the fact it was freezing, I slipped my toes out from my shoes and felt the sand beneath me as I walked closer toward the ocean. My sister wrapped her arms tighter around her small son, a fuzzy blanket keeping him warm.

We were small, minuscule in fact, in front of that gaping water.

I have felt small before — the good kind and the bad.

I have felt small in the good way: while standing in front of the sea, sitting under the star speckled sky, looking out at the mountains of Rwanda and Peru. And the bad way: feeling unloved and like a desperate disappointment, all the while convincing myself I needed to do something in order to measure up.

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