Just one of those days.

I sit reclining in the driver's seat of my car (which I am still amazed that I even have), feet propped in the corner of the open window. Cool spring breezes alternate with the heat of the engine blowing through the vents. I stare at the trees swaying in the wind, listen to the rustling, whispering of the branches. The leaves are still young, having only appeared a day or two ago. The trees are black silhouettes against a cloudy sky, city lights casting a pink-tinged glow. Something that had been uptight slowly starts to unwind in my chest. The rumbling idle surrounding me like a breathing giant, the distant sound of cars, and the wind talking with the trees are soothing.

Sitting in a car at night makes me feel safe. It reminds me of the countless times my family traveled. As we neared home I would gradually wake up from dozing but keep my eyes closed. My parents' murmured conversation from the front reminding me that all was right in the world. My now feigned sleep kept the spell hovering in the air, knit together by hushed words, dark night, and the constant gentle shake of the engine. As we turned into the driveway, Dad would shift into park and just wait. There would be a few seconds before Mom said "We're... Home!" As the car idled, I wanted that moment to last forever.

Now nearing my 23rd birthday, having taken on many of the responsibilities of an adult and watching several more loom on the horizon, I feel so old and yet so very young and inexperienced. I just want to be that little girl again, cherished and protected by her parents. All is right in that world, packed into a car with my two siblings sleeping beside me, my family all together, so close and quietly content.

The moment the key is turned and the engine dies down is a sharp reminder of reality. We have to go inside to squint at bright lights and brush our teeth, awakening lulled senses, trade warm clothes for more comfortable pajamas, crawl between cold sheets and wish that the bed had an engine that could sooth us back into oblivion.

Maybe that's why I'm still sitting outside in my car more than an hour after getting home. I want to delay reality, to be safe and loved - ironically alone in my car filled with nostalgia. I'm overwhelmed by the irrational desire to move back home with my parents, where responsibilities are measurable and acceptance and understanding are a constant.

Now, we all have our off-days, when it seems we got out on the wrong side of the bed (though the other side is against the wall, so I'm not sure how that works). But here's the thing: I've spent a good part of the evening trying to find something to make me feel better - food, chocolate, friends, TV, a trip to the store, sitting in the car. I've been trying to fix myself with all the things I know that help. But I've neglected what can help most.

He'll quiet me with His love, rejoice over me with His song.
He'll hide me in the shadow of His wings.

He restores my soul.
He cries with us, rejoices with us. And provides things like the wind to remind us of His goodness.

I am reminded to seek Him.

Yet I think its OK once in a while to allow the gentle vibrating hum of the car to lull me into contentment, to find solace in the physical that brings forth the memories of a treasured past. It makes me want to cry from relief. Or maybe I want to cry because its just been one of those days, where tears are inexplicable and a good long, solid mom-hug (or dad-hug!) is the only thing that can right a skewed world. 

To be honest, this - writing this - is also a way to quiet whatever is irrationally, inexplicably wrong tonight. Writing, guitar, piano, crafting - creative expressions make the world better.
And I think that is a gift. Something God gives us to deal with the stresses of life, something tangible. For others it may be running, or gardening, or sports, or - well, you know what helps you. If we have the right intentions, these can be an act of worship, of gratitude, of trust, using the gifts he has given us to handle life. 

So maybe it's a good thing I took time to simply sit in the car, watch the trees dance and let the words flow.

And maybe now I should let my poor engine rest and go inside.

Grocery bag stockings.

The thick scent of the unwashed swept over me as she walked down the aisle saying, "Change to help with hygiene, so I can get a job?" She repeated this various times in a scratchy old voice, rustling a plastic bag to receive alms as her thin frame swayed to the rhythm of the train. The tan trench coat she wore was ripped all the way down the right side, her bare arm just moments before exposed to the fringed winter air. The dark skin was weathered and worn, like that the the Quichua women I had seen so often working in Andean fields, chapped by exposure to incessant, harsh winds. A fleece blanket, safety-pinned at the shoulder, attempted to give another layer of warmth, but failed to give proper coverage. Plastic bags peeped out of the worn black Crocs on her feet.
My heart wrenched within me as those on the train ignored her. I was guiltily warm in my heavy parka, tall fur-lined boots, fleece gloves and alpaca scarf. Should I give her my coat? Could I take her to a meal? Bring her home for a hot shower and warm bed? Did I have cash I could give her? Or was this all a ruse, did she really have more clothes to wear bundled in the old grocery bags that filled her folding cart? Maybe she dressed poorly on purpose to "sell" the homelessness. I had heard of people doing so. I averted my eyes as she walked by, tiredly pleading for others to care. Looking up after she passed, I briefly met the eyes of a smiling honey-blond man near my age, wrapped snugly in scarf and coat. Did his heart lurch at the sight of her, wishing to do something? Or did he look down on her, a dirty, smelly distraction on a cheerful Sunday morning outing? Why did no one else reach out to help her?
A small relief, the "Thank you" of her scratchy voice as someone behind me dropped spare change into her bag. "Dempster," rang out the automated voice as the train slowed to a stop. I stood and hurried to the door, wondering how I could be so cold-hearted. But what would my mother say if I gave away the coat she gave me? I couldn't exactly afford to buy another one. The scarf crocheted by my sister couldn't just be given away. Gloves I could easily replace - but by then I was  out on the platform heading to the stars, surrounded by chatting, laughing young people. Didn't I have a ten in my pocket? Why hadn't I given her that? How could I go about my day, sitting piously in church, when the woman on the train couldn't even stay warm?

I am already serving, already pouring out my life for others. Is that not enough? I grew up on the mission field; now, less than 6 months after graduating from Bible school I am raising support to work with inner city kids here in Chicago. How much more can I do? Do I pour out my every second, every breath into helping others? This is what my heart calls for, but I know from experience it leads to burn out. And I have seen the "help" that people give to those in need be detrimental in the long run. But couldn't I have done something? Should I volunteer somewhere? Carry around winter attire to give away? As a student, I walked by the YMCA and the gathering of the homeless on the railing more times than I can count. Sometimes I would smile and reply to their friendly comments, but often I would look straight ahead and rush by. Even now I often simply pass by the shaking cup or cardboard sign, the pleading mother or tired old man. I am ashamed.

So what can we, as followers of Christ called to care for those in need, do?

We can acknowledge them as people. Made in the image of God, precious in His sight. Look them in the eye and give them the dignity of recognition as such.
Remember that we can't help everyone. But be sensitive to the Spirit's leading, and be prepared to follow it. One blustery day in downtown Cincinnati I felt the persistent nudge to buy a cup of coffee for a man outside on the street bench. As he warmed his hands around the steaming Starbucks cup, I felt the pleasure of my Lord. We can't always do something, but we can be ready and willing. We can try to carry change, or a granola bar, or an apple to give away. Be willing to buy a meal occasionally. We needn't feel guilty for what God has given us, but we should never become callous to the needs of others. 

"Give me your eyes for just one second, give me your eyes so I can see everything that I keep missing. Give me your love for humanity. Give me your arms for the broken-hearted, the ones that are far beyond my reach." - Brandon Heath.

A Blinking Mind, a Thankful Heart

I close my eyes for a brief moment as we taxi to the runway. It is somehow soothing to be on a plane. As the engines speed up and we take off, rising smoothly into the air, I turn to look out the window. I love to fly at night and see the city lights dwindling below. And I suddenly don't know where I am or where I am going. Not to or from Ecuador, is my first realization. Nor to or from Chicago, is my next wistful thought. Then... oh, yes. Denver. I'm looking at Denver. It seems my mind blinked and forgot I was leaving somewhere new.

     It's strange how one's upbringing affects one's life. I grew up traveling. And somehow traveling just feels right. My 6 hours in the bus wasn't all that bad. The 16 hour road trip was delightful. And my 2 hour flight is soothing. I am very much looking forward to being home and no longer a guest, yet I find a certain familiar thrill in traveling and a joy in seeing people and participating in their lives.
     I sit on a Southwest plane, surrounded by the warm rumbling of the engines and the soft murmuring of my fellow passengers, and I think on how I have been blessed recently. Blessed to witness the union of two dear friends before Christ. Blessed to reunite with friends of old. Blessed to make new friends, though they are scattered across the nation. Blessed to be able to share how God has led me to join in His work in Chicago, to see others catch this vision as He moves in their hearts. 

     This last blessing is especially appreciated. For sometimes, in brief moments of discouragement, I wonder if I am doing the right thing, if life wouldn't be easier some other way. And yet, as I perused the departure board before boarding my eye strayed to the word Chicago - and my heart leapt. I sighed, realizing that was not my destination. But that is where God has led my heart, and that is where I long to be. I miss talking with my Jr. High kids, teaching during Bible time, driving van route, serving with the other ICI missionaries, helping the kids think through different aspects of the gospel. I remember kneeling in the pine needles in the forested mountains of Ecuador and hearing my Lord say "Go." Just as Isaiah said, "Here am I, send me,"  I am ready. Just as Jeremiah cried out, "Your word is like a fire in my bones, I cannot keep it in,"  I am compelled. These assurances I remember when I lose sight of the why of support raising. And I remember what a privilege and blessing it is.
     As the plane begins its final descent, I am grateful that on top of the privilege of meeting with people and sharing the exciting way God is moving in Chicago, I get to travel. By plane, bus, car, and train. I get to see prairie dogs and windmills, the Rockies and corn fields, each with their own unique beauty. And I am presented over and over again with opportunities to praise my Lord. 

O LORD my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made...
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to thee,
How Great Thou Art!

Beautiful Colorado

Raindrops.

Rain.
I love the rain. I love walking in the drizzle, I love the heaviness of an approaching storm, I love downpours that soak straight to the bone.
I love the wind. Which is good, since I live in Chicago. Gentle breeze, brisk gust, strong gale, swirling round and round - I can almost fly...
Rain signifies something deeper to me, though.

The summer before I started college, I felt lost and afraid - change is a big deal for me. I had left my country, my friends, and was leaving my family. As I stood alone in the backyard overwhelmed with grief, I stepped out into the gentle rain, looked up at the sky, raindrops splashing in my face, and challenged God - Do you even care??? The wind picked up and the rain thickened in a sudden downpour. The sound of wind and rain filled my ears, whispering to me, I weep with those who weep...
Raindrops remind me of God's nearness. He is near to me in my joy, near to me in my fears, near to me in my sorrow.
God speaks his nearness into my life through rain. Also through sunshine, and pink tinged clouds, and rustling leaves, but especially through rain.
A phrase from Founder's Week at Moody a few years ago swirls around in my head: "The nearness of God is my good." It is our greatest good, our ultimate, highest good. Seek out and treasure the nearness of God. He reminds me of his nearness through raindrops. How about you?

B.A. in Educational Ministries - Youth Ministry

I ought to be rejoicing.

But instead I feel rather numb. Every now and then, I realize I have graduated. I am done. There is no more homework, no more academic pressure. I blink, and feel a small stirring of satisfaction at the tip of my rib cage. I blink again, and it's gone. More often than not, if I even think about it tears threaten to spill over and join the wave of loneliness and homesickness washing over me.

Commencement is supposed to be the beginning - but the beginning of what? Real life. Adulthood. My problem is, I don't know how to be an adult. I still love swinging, singing children's songs, reading picture books, standing on things just to be taller... So what is someone wearing pigtails and humming Psalty songs doing in the Real World?

As I walked up to the stage, having not slept the night before and already made one mistake in the ceremony, I was afraid I might simply collapse in front of Dr. Nyquist as he held out my "diploma." When I sat back down, the butterflies, tired of being trapped in my innards, were beating with all their might making sure I knew something special had just happened. (Either special or awful, they don't know how to differentiate between the two).
Many of my friends have much to look forward to - weddings, great job offers, internships... I don't know yet what I am doing. All my efforts over the past few months have brought me to this day - and now it is over.
I'm ok not knowing the future, it doesn't bother me that much. I have full confidence my God will make things clear. But there is nothing pulling me forward, driving me onward, no spice of excitement and anticipation.

So I sleep (a lot), mourn the loss of what was, and generally walk around in a daze. Pretty soon I'll have to gird up my loins and pull up on my bootstraps - but for a brief moment I hover in time and space, enjoying the uncertainty, being "other," observing my life, waiting on God. And every day, it becomes a bit more real: I am Cristina Hunter, college graduate, Moody Alum.

Last.

Every time I blink, I'm facing another "last."
My last Monday Morning Meeting with Food Service. My last opening shift at work. Last week of classes, last couple late night city walks, last Tuesday night at ICI, last moments as a college student. May 12, graduation day, looms on the horizon, overshadowing all I think or do. It ought to be something I look forward to, but instead all I can think is last.

So I need a first. This is my first blog.

As an MK, I have said goodbye to many people and places. I feel like each goodbye I've had to say over the years has sucked a little bit of life out of me, and I don't know how much more I have to give. I don't like being uprooted.

Growing up, we would take broken pieces of ivy or spider plant and put them in a glass jar filled with water. This does not just prolong wilting - they grow roots. I was always fascinated  by being able to see the roots, normally hidden in dirt and flower pot, and amazed that it could survive and grow even though it had been broken.

Like ivy, or a spider plant, I've learned to put down roots in different places as I grow. But they seem all torn up. So maybe I have been broken off, maybe I am dangling above the safety of dark, moist earth, gasping for more than just air. Maybe the roots I learn to put down will be transitive, ready to switch jars, preparing to move into a pot.  Maybe I am doomed to forever live in an old coffee jar. Or maybe I am blessed in that way.

So here's to my last two weeks at Moody Bible Institute. Here's to an unknown future. Here's to another series of goodbyes - may my tears be swallowed up in the vast waters of Lake Michigan, washed away by the river, and hidden in the crevices of the cracked sidewalks of my favorite city. Chicago.