Last Goodbyes.

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because - because if he should die,
While I was gone -  and I - too late -
Should reach the heart that wanted me - 

If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted - hunted - so to see -
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me - they noticed me -

If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I'd come - so sure I'd come -
It listening - listening - went to sleep -
Telling my tardy name - 

My heart would wish it broke before -
Since breaking then - since breaking then -
Were useless as next morning's sun
Where midnight frosts - had lain!

This was my favorite Emily Dickinson poem in American Lit. I loved the depth of feeling portrayed by the repetition. I still do. She wrote about Death a lot.

I felt rather like this when I found out my grandmother was dying three weeks ago. I should not dare to leave Grandmae, because - because if she should die while I was gone and I too late should reach the heart that wanted me. I stayed for three weeks, that I might be there when she died. In the end, I wasn't. It is easy for me to want to slip into Emily Dickinson mode, to be overwhelmed by the death and sorrow of life.

A few minutes ago I was writing a letter. A letter to the many who stand behind me, stand with me, and have lifted up my family in prayer. "I said my goodbyes," I told them.  I said my goodbyes. My breath caught and I stopped writing. I said my goodbyes. My friend put a hand on my shoulder as the tears started to fall. I closed my eyes and pictured it. I said my goodbyes. 

I sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand, soft and fragile, loose skin slowly withering from dehydration. When I was young I would sit on her lap and hold her hand, carefully tracing the soft blue veins that stood in relief from the wrinkles. I marveled at how fragile and beautiful old age made her hands. Her hands had been old and beautiful for a long time. Her soft white hair was straight, lying gently on the pillow. She used to only wear it permed and pinned up. I remember my surprise the first time I saw her hair down. I missed the way she used to take care of her hair so that it would always be proper. The bed was raised so she was half sitting, that her single functioning lung could effectively breathe. She looked at me and I at her. I swallowed hard, willing my voice to be cheerful and the lump in my throat to disappear. It was time. Time for me to go back to Chicago. I had stayed for as long as felt right, but I still didn't want to leave. This was the moment I always dreaded. I wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, pretend it was a normal, lighthearted goodbye. But I also wanted her to know how much I loved her, that I appreciated all the wonderful grandmotherly things she had done for me. I blinked rapidly and smiled.

Don't cry, she had said to me a few days previous. A smile was in her croaking voice and lit her eyes. My face is dry. I'm just watering it, I quipped. The smile touched her lips. 

I tried hard not to cry. Most of the words came out, but at the end I cracked and crumbled. I love you. She didn't say it back. The lump in her throat must be as large as mine. I leaned in and lifted her arm, and she hugged me back. The first hug she had given me in months. And the last. 

I said my last goodbyes. It finally hit me that she no longer lay in the bed with the white sheets, head elevated, crunching on ice chips. Her graceful, soft, withered hands no longer reached for us or roamed over the sheets, fidgeting. She isn't waiting for me to return. I said my last goodbyes.

The memory faded. I knelt on the floor, crying. Father, if she is indeed rejoicing in heaven with you, could you give me a reassurance of that? It would be less bitter if I knew. I just want to know. Moments passed. "She is alive right now." My friend's voice broke the silence. "Walking and talking." His hand on my shoulder a source of comfort, his words stilled the fears in my heart.

Death is so final.
Last goodbyes echoes in my thoughts.
Except it's not.
She is alive.

Psalm 77: When the past brings truth.

Psalm 77

I cried out to God for help;

I cried out to God to hear me.

When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;

  at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted.

I remembered you, O God, and I groaned;

I mused, and my spirit grew faint.

You kept my eyes from closing;

I was too troubled to speak.

I thought about the former days, the years of long ago.

I remembered my songs in the night

My heart mused and my spirit inquired:

"Will the Lord reject forever? Will he never show his favor again?

Has his unfailing love vanished forever? Has his promise failed for all time? 

Has God forgotten to be merciful?

Has he in anger withheld his compassion?"

Then I thought, "To this I will appeal:

  the years of the right hand of the Most High."

I will remember the deeds of the LORD,

  yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.

I will meditate on all your works 

  and consider all your mighty deeds.

Your ways, O God, are holy. What god is so great as our God?

You are the God who performs miracles;

  you display your power among the peoples.

With your mighty arm you redeemed your people, the descendants of Jacob and Joseph.

The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and writhed;

  the very depths were convulsed.

The clouds poured down water,

  the skies resounded with thunder;

  you arrows flashed back and forth.

Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind,

  your lightning lit up the world;

  the earth trembled and quaked.

Your path led through the sea,

  your way through the mighty waters,

  though your footprints were not seen.

You led your people like a flock by the hand of Moses and Aaron. 

It's been a while since I've been so distressed. But I remember it. I remember being like the psalmist, with an ache so deep you can't even talk about it, and emptiness that nothing seems to fill. Where are you, God? 
The Psalmist lies awake at night, so very troubled. Looking back, he once sang with joy, but now sees only his troubles, and despairs. Will the Lord always reject me? Will I never see his favor again?  Will his unfailing love fail? Have his everlasting promises died out? This God who delights in mercy, did he just forget to be merciful? 

How many times have I secretly doubted? When I take the time to give voice to the unsettledness, the disquiet in my spirit, I realize I am afraid that it won't all work out. That there will not be healing and reconciliation, that God will not forgive, that He will not bring to completion the calling he has given. "Ok God, I'm here, now what? Will you just abandon me? Maybe you won't forgive this time. Maybe you've handed us over to the enemy and forgotten about us. Maybe you've set forth this task but won't help me finish it."

The Psalmist's answer is not, "Look, I've served him faithfully, I deserve all these things! I deserve his favor, his love, his mercy, his compassion." It's, "Let me take another look at what he has done." How can I know that God will be who he says he is? I can remind myself that he has already proved it, again and again. Is God faithful? Yes! He always has been! Will God show his favor again? Yes! He did before, time and again. Does God stay his anger and show compassion? Over and over again!  

Right now I am in a period of waiting. The days stretch out long before me yet still fly by, and there is only so much I can do. But even for what I can do, I am often overcome by fear. I secretly think that God won't provide. He won't see me through the support raising process, I'll never get to work with the kids at ICI, to do what he called me to do. I fear that this person I'm about to call or meet with will feel burdened and annoyed by me. God certainly won't speak to them or provide for them to be part of my ministry. I have probably angered him with my sin, he won't show favor until I make up for it. Yet as soon as I put words to those thoughts, they are revealed as ridiculous lies. Of course I know that God provides! He has done so for his people throughout history, for my family over the decades, and for me in the past year! Of course if I believe he can lead and speak to me and provide for my ministry, then he can also lead others to take part and provide for them to do so! Look how many times he has done so up 'til now. And if his favor and forgiveness were based on my deserts, I would be lost. But they are based on his love and his character, not on me at all. I can look to the past, both near and far, to allay my fears and find hope. 

What do you need to be reminded of? What has God done in your life or shown you in Scripture that can put to rest the fears and lies that disquiet your soul?

New years, new creations.

Some friends with the "Old Man," New Years Eve 2005

Ecuador has a tradition for New Years Eve: At midnight the hombre viejo or "old man" is burned. This scarecrow/dummy is created by stuffing a set of clothes with newspaper or straw, and finished off with shoes, gloves, and a mask. The hombre viejo is then doused with gasoline and burned at midnight. This signifies saying goodbye to the old - of last year - and welcoming the new. It is a time of great celebration, even more than Christmas, with fireworks painting the sky and firecrackers snapping and dancing in the streets.

This year, the duality of old and new, goodbye and welcome, lays heavy on me. At the end of 2013, my dear friend and adopted "grandma"  Bobbie Borman passed into glory. She and her husband served the Cofan tribe of Ecuador for decades. She touched so many lives and will be missed dearly. On the 2nd of January, my niece Molly was born. She is welcomed with great joy. New life. 

The New Year also reminds me: "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation - the old has gone, the new has come" (2 Corinthians 5:17). Just as we burn the hombre viejo to say goodbye to the old year and greet the new, we put to death our old sin nature and live our new lives as children of God. Grandma Borman was a woman well acquainted with this. She desired greatly to leave her old sin and grow in holiness in Christ. A woman of prayer and unceasing love, she left both a legacy and an example to follow.

With her passing, I have been thinking a lot about death. Chicago is a place that is full of death - stories of shootings and accidents and murders are constant. Right my news app gives me headlines of "At least 5 hurt in city shootings", "Infant girl's death investigated in Barrington," "Autopsies: 2 died from cold exposure" and even "Peacock dies after escape from petting zoo."

Throughout the day as at odd moments I am reminded of Grandma Borman's death, I also feel a twinge of jealousy - she is in glory with our Lord, something I long for. Even as I cry, I smile to think of the joy she must be experiencing. But it brings to mind even more all those who encounter death without this hope. And I am reminded that this is why I do what I do. "Since then, we know what it is to fear the LORD, we try to convince others." We know what it is to have hope in Christ - how can we not share this with those who don't?

This support raising stage feels much like the "already-not yet" of our Christian lives. I am already part of ICI but not yet at ICI. I am already in ministry representing God's heart for missions to the Church, but not yet in hands-on ministry with the kids God has laid on my heart. We are already saved and justified, we are being sanctified, but we wait in eager expectation to be glorified and to be with our Lord.

Grandma Borman, sing a Hallelujah for me!

Frightened Tears.

I sit quietly in my cozy garden apartment, snuggled up on the red couch with my computer. Hiding away from the cold rain on this the last day of October, the day I commemorate the beginning of my faith, I put the finishing touches on my newsletter. A harsh voice breaks my peaceful work - SHUT UP!

Harsh voices were rarely used in my childhood, except for the most dire circumstances. GET OUT OF THE STREET! DON'T TOUCH THE STOVE! And probably something like WHAT HAPPENED??? when we broke the glass light cover and sliced open my 3 year old sister's knee. Even under those circumstances, the motive behind the raised voice was not anger. I've always been sensitive to even a firm tone, yelling especially frightens me.

SHUT UP!!

A little flame of fear instantly flickers into being in my chest at the tone. A little girl is crying, probably three or four years old. The irate mother's anger aggravates rather than softens her sobs.

SHUT THE **** UP!

More crying, frightened tears.

A fourth outburst with more swearing causes the child to try to contain herself, but with little success. My heart breaks for this little girl. And just as anger starts to rise against the mother, my heart breaks for her as well. This woman who is broken and bruised and doesn't know how to not take out her pain on her child. This woman who is enmeshed in her sin, who has nurtured her anger, who doesn't know the healing love and forgiveness of Christ. It frightens me to think of many out there are just like her - hurting and afraid, angry and violent, desperately wicked and desperately in need of the love of the Savior.

When I look around this city I see so many full of anger, quietly cold, simmering, boiling over.  What have you gotten me into, God? Anger frightens me, but the people you have called me to are steeped in it. Passing down through generations, across to their peers, it spreads like poison.

To quote a wise sage, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to [darkness]." Sometimes it seems like darkness is swallowing this city. But perfect love casts out fear. Over and over again, hundreds of times, God tells his people not to fear. Do not be afraid.

The voices of the woman and her child fade from earshot, passing by the wrought iron gate and continuing north. The cozy, peaceful feeling of just seconds before has fled. I am left with the growing burden, now more urgent, to bring the Good News to the streets of Chicago.

The one on giving.

Some people should not be giving. They just really can't afford it. They shouldn't worry about helping others when they are looking after themselves. 

This is a secular, faithless thought that enters my head. What?? John Smith gave? But... I remember he said such and such. Why is he giving? 

Often we think, "The people who have a lot of money, they should give. Once I have more, I'll give too." 

There are finance classes circulating several churches, helping people to develop financial peace. This is admirable, as many are in debt and want the skills to be more responsible. But many of these classes also say, "Don't give until you are stable, firmly situated with a nice cushion, just in case." 

This makes sense, right?

Does it?

It depends what kind of sense you want to make. 

Couple things I've learned in life: (in the vast 23 years of it!)

- Living by faith and not by sight is hard. Whether it's Abraham leaving home for the unknown and waiting for a promised but absent son, John Smith waiting for the next paycheck, Jane Doe giving away something she actually really needs, or Missionary Bob trusting God will provide, faith is hard.

- Safety nets are wonderful. I'm not sure I would have made a good disciple. When Jesus sent the 12 out to preach, he told them not to bring any food, extra clothes, or other supplies. I like being prepared - making do without or depending on others is hard.

- Giving is often rewarded. Not only can it bring us closer to God as an act of worship, there is also joy in giving and helping others. And (not always, but sometimes) what we give may be replaced or even increased. 

Couple things I've learned through God's Word:

-Without faith, it is impossible to please God. Seeking out a life that makes me OK without God is like saying - "Thanks, but I got this. If I need you, I'll give you a ring." Check out the parable of the man who was blessed with a lot and built a second barn to store it all in. (side note: I'm not saying being financially stable is a bad or godless thing, just that seeking it above all else isn't exactly biblical. The stable, wealthy women who supported Jesus and his ministry are spoken of highly).

- Generous, cheerful, often sacrificial giving is strongly encouraged and praised. Living with an open palm was the norm for the early church. 

I am guilty of clinging to financial security. A friend recently reminded me to not stress so much about my savings account. But I am learning, and trying to grow. Can I "afford" to support a missionary? No, not really. But I do. I make other things work around it. And there are a few other missionaries I wish I could support (and hopefully will once my paycheck isn't being swallowed whole by bills). If we are to seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness, should we not give to it first as well? 

So when that passing thought sneaks into my head, "Why and how is John Smith giving?" Or worse, "I certainly can't give," I will smack it right back out. Why?

Because giving is not about the amount or the apparent ability.

Giving is about the heart. It is about an attitude of selflessness and caring for others and obedience to God. 

I am blown away by so many who practice this. There are many John Smiths in my life who give out of love and obedience who want to be part of God's work and get in on the action. I'm excited they get to share in the blessing. I am amazed by all those who give, from $5 to $150 a month, because they give joyfully what God has enabled them to give.  And I overflow with thanks and praise to God.

 "Remember this: Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously. Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work... Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness. You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God. This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of God's people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, men will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone." 2 Corinthians 9:6-14

The line on the yellow folder.

"I want to be on Jesus' side."

The yellow folder lay on the table between us, a line drawn down the middle, one side labeled "Jesus," across the line, "Other."
Just before, she had asked, "Isn't everyone Jesus' friend?" I wanted to say yes. I wished I could say yes. But the hard truth, the truth no one really likes hearing or saying, must be spoken. And so the quickly sketched line and scrawled words on the yellow folder demonstrated that there is no neutral ground.

"I want to be on Jesus' side." Her finger indicated which side she meant.

"Based on what we've talked about this week and on the verses we've been studying, what do you have to do to be on His side?"

She shrugged. "Follow God."

The other kids piped in - the kids I was growing to love. The pastor's daughter, Emma. The missionary's son, Thomas. The ever-confident Ellie. These piped in - "And you have to repent." "And accept Jesus as your savior." "And believe that he died for your sins." I only met these kids three days ago. But I am oh, so proud of them.

I wanted to push her, to coax her to pray and believe right at that moment. But too often have I seen children raise a hand or pray a prayer just because they are asked - true belief goes deeper than that. True belief doesn't need to be coaxed.

More than a prayer, I wanted her to count the costs. To truly follow Christ. To accept that He is the only way, not just a good way. For she still believed it was Jesus and being good.

She opted to wait a little bit, maybe tomorrow.

But tomorrow came, and she seemed distant and disconnected. During song time, she sat with her face scrunched into a frown.

"Is there something wrong?" She shook her head no, not looking at me. "What's wrong?"

Face unscrunched a little, she looked away. "I'm just bored."

"You lie like a rug," I thought. But I didn't push it.

Previously so close to accepting Christ's sacrifice for her, she continued the day detached whenever spiritual things were brought up. When asked why she didn't want to bring a bible or her verse crafts home, she sighed heavily and evasively replied, "It's a long story."

Suddenly it dawned on me: her parents must have corrected her when she went home with tales of the gospel.

The week of VBS is now over. I wanted it to go on and on, week after week, that I might continue learning to teach better and getting to know these kids. I may never see Charlotte again, we met at a different church than I go to, in a different suburb than I live in. I wonder, if I had pushed harder, made a clearer invitation to receive Christ, taken her aside, done anything differently - would she then have become a Christian? But no, it is not a prayer or a profession of faith that saves, but faith itself. I don't want to talk her into stepping across the line on the yellow folder. She must choose it herself.

She now knows the truth. It is up to God to help her believe it.

When I Am Like Peter.

I suddenly felt like Peter. 

I had asked the Lord to tell me to step out, and he called me out upon the water. I felt the thrill of the miraculous - but then I glanced away. My steps faltered, froze, then my feet started thrashing as suddenly I plunged into the water and waves crashed over me. I coughed and sputtered, my eyes stung. The wind howled and swept away the shouts of my friends in the boat,  moments ago mere steps away, now unreachable. As I struggled to keep my head above the water, I turned back to them for help - surely they would toss a rope or row over to me. But to my surprise, they were preoccupied with keeping the boat afloat, saving their own lives - though some seemed to be shouting to the man behind me. 

I, of all people, ought to be able to survive this. I who have been a fisherman my whole life, who swam nearly as soon as I could walk. I, who love the water and the wind and the rain, who survived storm after storm. I should be able to handle this.

But I couldn't. And just as desperation seized me, and I cried out "Lord! Save me!" a hand grasped firmly mine, and he who had called me out pulled me up. "O you of little faith, why do you doubt?"

Was that a spark of amusement in his eyes? Sorrow coating his voice? Perhaps a mixture of both. For to him, it is such a small matter, and he knows all will be fine. Not mockery in his smile, but wistfulness and love. "Oh little child, if only you knew." I know he wants me to believe and trust, and my fear and doubt and subsequent pain saddens him. 

When my nephew was only a few months old, he would cry and cry and cry. I would sing, trying to soothe and distract him, the words slightly different each time.

"Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, I know your tummy hurts, that's so sad. 

 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, I hate to see you mad.

 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, you wouldn't be so blue,

 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, if you knew how I loved you."

If only he could understand how very loved he was, his fears and pain might dissipate. If only we could understand the magnitude of God's love, we might be more willing to trust.

No matter how skilled I am at "swimming," no matter the experience I have cultivated through my past in missions, I must rely on faith moment by moment. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the certainty of things unseen. I must seek the assurance and certainty that Christ is who he says he is and will accomplish what he said he will, that which he called me to. If he says to come walk on the water, he will enable me to do so - not by my power or skill, but by his. 

After all, his power is made perfect in my weakness.

Prayers of Gratitude.

Her face alight with interest, she nods in agreement at something I say, takes a sip of her coffee. People mill around us but they are out of focus, muted. Some remote part of me knows my eyes are shining with excitement, every part of me tingling and alive. Recounting what God has done, painting pictures of the girls and boys I worked with at ICI, tracing the paths God took me down to get to this point - it's thrilling. I silently shoot up a prayer of gratitude for this person God has brought into my life, someone also passionate about reaching Chicago for Christ. 

Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to speak for missions, to help others find joy in serving you, to share what you have called me to do.  

I review my excel sheet, inputting numbers, scrolling up and down, back and forth, clicking from one screen to another. And blink tears from my eyes. God's faithfulness, the faithfulness of you who  take part in my work with ICI - it blows me away. I see how you have given month after month. I see you who have recently joined my team, joined with me in reaching these inner city kids. There are 40 of you who give repeatedly, almost 20 more who give special gifts. And more than 80 additional, you pray. "The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective."

Thank you, Lord, for the multitude you have called to come alongside me, to encourage and uplift me, to love your gospel and the kids in Chicago. 

In discussing the process of support raising recently, I reflect on how it is preparing me. The endurance and perseverance I am learning test my commitment - hands-on ministry will require these. Reliance on God, financially, emotionally, relationally - this also will be further needed once I start. The furthering of practical skills such as initiating relationships and intentional conversation is essential to developing disciples. And I learn again and again to increase my faith in God's faithfulness.

Thank you, Lord, for teaching me through support raising. For the preparation you do in my life now for the future. For using this time to further mold me into your likeness. 

Red Thermometer.

There is a red thermometer sketched on the white board on the fridge in my and Karin's house. It tells me daily, sometimes rejoicing, sometimes mocking: 43%. 43%. 

It has been at that level for a while. I hit 40% at the beginning of May - it is now July. I have met with several people, increased 3%. I have 57% left to go - in just under 2 months. If I continue at this rate, by my projected "start date" I won't even be at 50%. 

I often get distracted and discouraged. One day I spent nearly the whole day reading. Reading. A fantasy novel. About zombies, of all things. (Not really a fan of zombies. At all. It tricked me.)

I easily get swallowed up in my failings and kick myself for not being more diligent, more responsible, for not presenting the ministry well or not specifically inviting people to join my team. If I just worked harder, if I just stayed focused, if I were better I could reach my goal, be a "good missionary." Or at least support raiser.

It's time to forget what is behind and strain for what is ahead. To press on toward the goal to win the prize.

But that's taking that out of context. That's not at all what the verse is talking about. It's not about attaining whatever your goal is, but attaining Christ. 

"I want to know Christ, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already attained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." - Philippians 3:10-14

Seek first, then all else will be added. According to God's timing, will, and discretion. My striving attains nothing, but in seeking Him I have all I need.

Due credit.

Recently I received an anonymous gift. It left me speechless and touched. And very much out of control. As far as I know, it was from nothing that I did, I cannot trace any of my own efforts that resulted in the gift. There's nothing I can do after receiving it. I don't know who to thank, I can't give credit where it's due.

 And yet I can, for in giving - and receiving - the greatest credit goes to God. My support level so far is due to God's work, not my own. Those who give do God's work as surely as the work I will be doing is His work. 

By nature, I want to give credit to someone - someone must be praised. Yet I am forced to give all praise to God. 

And this is how it should be.

High Schools and Lilacs

"Just Dance"  at youth event

I haven't had much chance to interact with youth lately. I look back on all I've done with ICI, and I look forward to being with them again, but currently my focus is all on support raising so I can get there quickly. My small group at church hosted a youth outreach - a video game tournament with guest artists, testimonies, and a presentation of the gospel. I'm not a huge video game person, but it turned out pretty fun! I went to the high school a couple times in the past week to hand out fliers and invite students. And boy, did it feel right! 

Being at the high school as throngs of teens surged around me made me so excited. I wished I was doing this for an ICI event, that I could actually get to know many of these kids long term. I could follow up and hang out and see them frequently. 

As I passed out fliers, I found myself seeking eye contact and interaction more with the demographic that I'll be working with in Logan Square and Humboldt Park. My gaze slipped over the primly dressed blond kid to catch the eye of a young latino or a lanky black teen. No, wait, offer fliers to the white kids too. I guess I have a bias!  

It made me so excited for when I'll be at Inner City Impact and get to do this every day. Interact with students. Bright, young, fresh, hurting, angry, excited, timid, insecure, cocky, imaginative, creative, lonely, lost students.  September, here I come!

But in order to get to ICI, I need to have 100% of my support raised. In order for that to happen, I need to share the ministry and invite people to join my team. To do that i have to get appointments to talk with them. To do that I have to make phone calls. *sigh* Therefore - make those phone calls! Tonight I get to talk with two different people about ICI. I'm excited!

In other news, my birthday was in May. The celebration of it stretched from the 21st to the 31st as I celebrated early with family who were going to be out of town (Edwardo's and Olive Garden), on time with a couple friends (brunch, late night swimming, and a conference call with my whole family!), and late for a weekend celebration with others (tacos at my place, cake made by my housemate Karin, topped off by the hat game). I am so blessed to be loved by all these people! And I am excited for another year of life. This past year was so eventful and life changing. I can trace God working and guiding me throughout the year as well as through years before that.

Also exciting: Lilacs are blooming! I brought some inside, and will probably go get more before they fade away. Lilacs are close to being my favorite flower, they smell so rich and sweet. If the whole world smelled like lilacs, violence would go down 85%. Let's get planting!

(The other thing we should plant is seeds of the gospel. That actually has a higher probability of decreasing violence).