Sunday, October 4

53 reasons why I love my Daddy...

53. He’s really cute. Obviously.
52. He brushes his teeth…ch ch ch ch, ch ch ch ch ch!

51. He lets me call him Frank.

50. He forgets why I call him Frank.

49. He took me to see his favorite band...twelve times.

48. He convinced me to go to Hendrix College.

47. He married my mommy.

46. He knows pride will bring you down. : )

45. He secretly owns a collection of bumper stickers that would surely get him kicked out of Kingwood if ever posted.

44. He rocks the khakis, polo, and Sperry's look better than anyone I know...and he's been doing it for about thirty years.

43. He lets me steal all his subversive literature to hand out to my friends.

42. He took me on a road trip across America one time.
41. He taught me to drive…and we both survived!

40. He’s cool, but not as cool as he thinks : )

39. He once trained a dog to answer to “pig”….

38. He cried when I told him I wanted to be a Christian.

37. He is constantly on a search for bigger iced tea glasses, and frequently suggests purchasing vases to drink from (?).

36. His preferred form of “dancing” involves tapping the car breaks at red lights.

35. He always taught me to keep my commitments.

34. Rumor has it he wore plaid pants in the 70's.

33. He let me put a Barney sticker on his racecar when I was four.

32. He lets me make fun of him.

31. And he throws it right back.

30. He's a really good sport every time he loses to me in our pizza-baking contests : )

29. He has one pair of pajamas. That he wears once a year. On Christmas morning.

28. He keeps my adolescent psychotic behavior on the down-low...most of the time.

27. He convinced me that getting a job at Starbucks was a really good idea, and it was!

26. Last year, he decided he wanted to live in a "hood" and literally took me "hood-hunting" across Nashville with him.

25. When I was five or so, he gave me roller-blades for Valentine's Day and let me skate around the Woodland Hills golf pro shop after hours.

24. He doesn't care what people think about him.

23. He stands up for justice.

22. He taught me to ride a bike on Nelson Street.

21. He introduced me to my all-time favorite non-Mexican restaurant, TOPS BBQ.

20 He enjoys telling "back in the day" stories--about walking five miles through snow uphill both ways and stuff--that are highly entertaining.

19. He makes up really cool songs... : )

18. He let me sit on the front row of every show at Disney World when I was seven.

17. He watches
Caddy Shack about once a week and loves it every time.
16. He refuses to list the movie under his (very seriously taken) Facebook favorites list because he is so misunderstood.

15. He loves orphans.

14. He's been trying to grow a garden in the suburbs as of late.

13. He eats all the cookies I burn so I can eat the yummy ones.

12. He's WAY older than me and can bike WAY harder than me!!

11. He always took me to the G.A. father-daughter banquets at church.

10. He's one of the smartest people I know.

9. He signed some autographs one time. I laughed really hard.

8. He's been offering to get me a tattoo at the little, hot pink tattoo parlor on Highway 59 since I was, oh, four or five.
7. He keeps me honest.

6. He let me go to Moldova.

5. He takes me to see my grandparents.

4. He showed me how to want to change the world.

3. He gave me roots.

2. He gave me wings.

1. He loved me first.


Happy Birthday, Daddy!

ps- About this card that I got you... I forgot to try and mail it 'til Friday. The Hendrix post office wouldn't overnight it for me, so I walked into town to the Conway post where I was kindly informed that they would be happy to overnight it for $17.95. (The postmen laughed at me when I said it was for my dad and he would understand my decision to opt for the 44 cent stamp....) So, needless to say, expect mail MONDAY ♥

Wednesday, September 30

a semester abroad!!

I remember the soft wind whispering through open bay windows. Tangles of ivy reaching inside. Simple roses. Cobblestone streets and speckled moss peeking up from underneath.

There was the incessant bustle of city life, and the refuge I found in the world a train ride away. Village. Country. Warmth and light.

I loved that centuries-old ironwork and stained glass. Those crisp accents. Afternoon misty rain showers. Light July jackets.

I loved England.

I remember knowing ever since I started college that I wanted to spend a semester abroad. I didn't know where I wanted to go. I just wanted to. First I was going to go to Spain, then China, then India, then Ireland, then I finally decided upon Bulgaria. Once all of those fell through I had my heart set on Australia but that didn't work out either. Sweden? No. Finland? Uh uh. A last minute try for Ghana? No.

It turns out there aren't that many schools that Hendrix will send me to that offer religion programs in English. But I have to study religion. It is my major...and it is what I love.

So finally, I applied to one school. Everything in. All or nothing.

I applied to the University of Chester in Chester, England, just south of Liverpool. It would have been nice to go somewhere new, but a girl can't complain about the prospect of an entire semester spent drinking the English tea I enjoyed for a couple weeks this summer. The University is a much bigger school than my own--11,000 students--but I thought that would be both challenging and enlightening. The town was founded as a Roman fortress in 78CE and a Roman wall still encompasses a large portion of the city. Since the 1500's it has been a Cathedral town, and since the 1800's a college town. On top of all that, they would let me study religion. And as of yesterday...

They accept
ed me!

I got the email, immediately called my mom, and then began my search for a cute raincoat.

January 4 - July 2

I get to go back to England, and live there. Really live there. It's going to be beautiful, the tea is going to be great, and I'm going to be broke and happy as can be.

Wednesday, August 19

Dear Jordan...

Dear Jordan,

Hey baby. I know you tell me not to say that, because you say you're a big boy. But I told you I call all the kids at the homeless shelter by that name, because I love yall. I miss the way you adore playing basketball and the way you used to jump out of your chair and go look out the window every time a train rushed by, no matter what was going on in class. I miss the way you used to get in so much trouble, only to give me a hug later.

I wanted to say sorry.

I'm sorry I live in a society that tries to hide people who live like you. I'm sorry I exist in a culture where our races are separated in a more fundamental, deeply rooted way than I'm afraid I could ever hope to understand. I'm sorry our economy is dominated by principalities that plot to deceive and ruin you. I'm sorry that I have settled for school systems that are going to diagnose, medicate, and isolate you. I'm sorry that the sins of your mother have made you a crack baby. But they are more than just the sins of your mother. They are the sins of the world, and they are my sins, too. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I have handed in donations and put you on prayer lists in exchange for actively taking a role in your life. I'm sorry that I have advocated for you only as long as it was popular and comfortable, never willing to sacrifice. I'm sorry that I've been scared of you, settled for having pity on you, and retreated to "church" when what I really needed to be doing was to be a part of the church. I'm sorry the systems, institutions, and powers of our city create an endless web of entanglements that have left your mother lost.

I'm sorry that I have given my time, my money, my attention, and my allegiance to these powers. Is it enough to stop now?

I'm sorry that even now, I want to hold onto the comfort of living the way I have always known. I want to close my mouth when I know I should tell my friends about you and this evil system, because I am still confused, meek, and uncertain. It is so hard to loosen my grasp, but that is the only way I can begin to disconnect myself from these powers. And, yet, still...I am scared. I don't know if I can do it.

Can I find the boldness to tell you thanks?

Thank you, Jordan. Thank you for giving me more nourishment than I ever dished out on your plate at lunchtime. Thank you for literally displaying the Kingdom of God before me while I merely tried to teach you more Bible stories. Thank you for helping me understand how complex our world is. Thank you. You've shown me more hope than I could have ever shown you.

Please don't let me stop here.

with the difficulty, confusion, and beauty that is love,
Michelle

Saturday, August 8

England

Two years ago when I signed up for this whole Hendrix College gig, I had absolutely no clue what I was getting myself into. And it's a good thing, too, because I wouldn't have believed the wonderful things I'd be doing if you had told me. Because we have an amazing art professor named Dr. Miller who loves C.S. Lewis and because we have a generous foundation that supports the study of language and literature (Hendrix-Murphy Foundation), I had the opportunity to travel to Oxford, England to study C.S. Lewis. Not only that, but we lived in his former home, saw some of the most beautiful parts of the English countryside, ate at some amazing old pubs, and met some absolutely amazing people.

Yes, I am quite possibly the luckiest girl in the world.

reflection of the countryside off the river at dusk

The Kilns, C.S. Lewis' former home

fellow Hendrix students, and amazing people I am so happy to now have as friends

It was wonderful.

absolutely wonderful.

I learned a lot about C.S. Lewis during my time there and have an absolutely new appreciation for him and his writings, but I have to tell you a secret. My favorite part of England was the churches. Everywhere we went, I wanted to go to church. I went to services at Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, and Holy Trinity (C.S. Lewis' little country church). I also saw about ten other old and resilient churches and every single time I was just in awe of their beauty. One was built in the 700's! I can't even comprehend what that means. I love church. I love communities of people coming together in the name of something holy. I love the normalcy that takes place in these remarkable, antique buildings. I love the mystery that takes place in these mere places. I love being reminded of the magnitude, holiness, and beauty of what Christian community means by the places where our ancestors used to meet and contemporary people still do. I love fact that these structures--these churches--have seen generations upon generations of life and struggle, hardship and hope, healing and redemption, peace and community.



Wednesday, August 5

nowhere near the best days...

The other day someone told me, "just wait until you get out of college. Everyone says these are the best days of your life, but you just wait. Life is so amazing."

That's the kind of stuff I'm gonna tell my kids.

My life is so extraordinary. Really. I mean, the people in my life absolutely blow me away. Every day. And the places I've been...just this summer! The things I've seen. All I've experienced.

I love my life. I don't think I deserve it, but I want to always be thankful. Always. And I want to keep going, keep knowing people, keep going places, keep seeing and experiencing things.

I can't wait to live in a foreign country next year.
I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to write my senior religion thesis on.
I can't wait to get my first apartment.
I can't wait to turn 21 and drink wine whenever I want.
I can't wait to host a grown-up dinner party.
I can't wait to work with homeless people again.
I can't wait to fall in love.
I can't wait to hear Taylor Swift's next album.
I can't wait to be friends with my friends some more.
I can't wait to finally figure out what denomination I want to be.
I can't wait to ride a Farris wheel again...I love those things.
I can't wait to be a bridesmaid.
I can't wait to get something published.
I can't wait to live in the South, like, forever.
I can't wait to see if I go to seminary.
I can't wait to have babies. Seriously.
I can't wait to see what my crazy dad is like when he's 80.
I can't wait to study like every book in the Bible.
I can't wait to kiss some more orphans.
I can't wait to take spectacular pictures.
I can't wait to be a teacher. Even if it's just Sunday School.
I can't wait to hear kids tell me my music is the oldies.
I can't wait to have a good-smelling house.
I can't wait to maybe one day figure out how to sew a pretty dress.
I can't wait to visit a remote village in South America.
I can't wait to drive cross country.
I can't wait to write letters to my kids at summer camp.
I can't wait to learn how to live with true thankfulness.
I can't wait to wear long skirts and look beautiful.
I can't wait to have an old, beat up Bible that I've been using for about seventy years.
I can't wait to have a 50th wedding anniversary.
I can't wait to have the best-looking grandchildren in the world.
I can't wait to get wrinkles and look wise.
I can't wait to be wise.
...I can't even wait 'til classes start in three weeks.

But the best part is, I can wait. Because I love today, too.



These are nowhere near the best days of my life.

Monday, July 13

to be a sower

I haven't written to you in a long, long time. Ever since I began my summer internship at Star of Hope everything I have written has been private, for my own understanding, as an attempt to process through everything that I was becoming a part of. I couldn't share it. But now my time there is over, and I am ready to share a little bit of what has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Star of Hope is an organization in Houston, TX with a mission to help the city's homeless men, women, and children. I spent six weeks at their "Women and Family Emergency Shelter," helping to teach and take care of a class of 8-12 year olds. When I say that it was hard, I mean it with everything I have in me. I have never struggled in the way that I did working at Star of Hope, nor have I ever felt so fulfilled by my failures.

I could tell you a million stories. I could tell you all the different reasons why I cried. I could tell you how much I loved those children. I could tell you how it feels to be gone now. I could write you a book (and maybe one day I will), but right now I want to paint you a picture...

They come. They enter those old doors battered and broken, proud and defiant, angry and strung-out, lost and uncertain. Beautiful. Their faces are the reflection of God, even when no one sees it. Some stay a night, others are allowed ninety days. There is food and water, clothing and shelter, childcare and counseling. No one really and truly wants to be at a homeless shelter. But they are there. And I was there Monday through Friday, 8-4, with a job that many Star of Hope employees call "sowing." Small seeds. Imperfect seeds. Seeds that I didn't even know I had, but when I found them unexpectedly, I planted. I tried to know my garden, to discover the ins and outs of where a seed might find good soil. My seed's name was love, and I planted it imperfectly, over and over again. I don't know where it fell, how it landed, or whether it made a difference at all. It's an emergency shelter, and one does not expect to witness major change. Strong and resilient oak trees do not spring up overnight. They do, however, exist. But not until the one who planted them is long gone. I am now the one long gone, and even if I were to go back, the children would not be there for me to water, prune, and tend. That is left to another, and I am left to hope.

In fact, I think this is a picture of hope. Regardless of whether or not I showed hope to anyone else this summer, I do know without a doubt that the children who now hold a piece of my heart taught me more about hope than I have ever known before. Hope is real, and it is mighty.

Some people are called so sow seeds. I think it's a special calling. I think it's a hard calling. And the people whom I have seen do it have taught me very much and I find their efforts, in all their imperfection, beautiful.


"The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field...then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father."
Matthew 13: 24, 43

Friday, May 29

hearts tied together

We have tied our hearts together
Not with string
And not with wire

But rather with the stuff that is life
With smiles, laughter, and songs
With embraces, silence, and
sobs

We have tied our hearts toget
her
Like the sunshine is tied to the flower
And like the river is tied to the sea

We have tied our hearts together
Because it is the way we make sense
Because it is where we find peace

I love you because you are

Because you are you
Just as the wave says t
o the shore

Because you have become a part of me
And I a part of you

And we, together, simply are

We have tied our hearts together

Because you’re beautiful, every little piece, love
Because baby, you can have whatever you like
Because the smell of your skin lingers on me now
Because I tried to be chill, but you’re so hot that I melted
Because I want you and
your beautiful soul
Because we’re glamorous: flossy, flossy
Because I fly like paper, get high like planes
Because it's a love story, baby just say yes
Because she drives a vegetable car
Because this one's by a cat named Mat Nathanson
Because I’m starin’ up the road, pray to God I see headlights
Because I’m free…free fallin’

We have tied our hearts together
And I know who I am
Because, everyday, I know who you are

Because you are the friends
who center me, surround me
and make sense of the universe

Like cinnamon
Like sea foam
Like socks

Your heart beats when mine cannot
Your hand squeezes when mine feels lost
Your bed is there when mine is cold

And I’m okay with saying I need you
Because I know you need me too
Because when your hearts are tied together

Everything
feels lighter, stronger, sweeter
good.



Friday, May 22

notes and snapshots from Taize


The Taize community is an ecumenical, international community 250 miles south of Paris, tucked quietly away in the French countryside. It was founded in 1940 in the midst of WWII as a sort of monastery for Christian men feeling called to a contemplative, meditative, simple life. The men called themselves "Brothers" and gathered three times each day for prayer. Impressed with the rarity of Catholics and Protestants coming together and pledging to live as a family, young people began flocking to Taize seeking to experience the prayer services held by the men. Today, there are 100 Brothers and sometimes thousands of young people literally from all over the world who come each week to live, work, and and pray with one another in Taize. I had the opportunity to travel with a group from my school to Taize just last week. The beauty of France alone would be enough to say that it was the experience of a lifetime, but there was so much more that made this trip nothing short of wonderful. I'm sure that the spirit of the Taize community will reverberate in my mind and shine light in my heart for years to come. In hopes of remembering, I toted my camera and journal along. Here are some notes and snapshots from my time in Taize. I realize it's not all going to make sense, but I think that's okay...


Monday The French countryside is a kind of beautiful that is breathtakingly unmistakable and undeniably other. Today as it flew by my window I just wanted to stop and bask in it...I thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. The countryside is beautiful like an old crinkled wedding photo, like the scent of lavender in sunshine, like fresh cotton sheets. It is the kind of beauty that is subtle enough to settle into and grand enough to still take your breath away. It is rolling patchwork hillls, clotheslines with dancing dresses, acres of nothing but flowers- bright yellow. It is castles and cottages, little girls and old grandfathers. It is narrow streets decorated with potted flowers when road rolls into village. It is old and being reborn. It is ripe and aging. It is beauty. It is springtime. It is France.


Tuesday It was as if the world was new again. Before Germans were harsh and course. Before their language was unattractive to ears like mine- ears that do not understand beauty. Before Americans were loud and proud, ignorant and obnoxious. It was a time when a guitar played and voices sang. "Let It Be," "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Eye of the Tiger" were the songs that I knew, but there were many more. Our voices sang in both English and German, or English with some wonderfully thick German accents, or German, while American fingers snapped along and faces laughed like joy had been found. I discovered that friendship finds peace where there is misunderstanding, beauty where before only ugliness was seen, smiles when the rest is lost in translation, and a common understaanding that newness in the world can, indeed, be found. It's as simple as guitar strums and outstretched hands. The ability to laugh and the openness to smile. It's as simple as a friendships where "German" and "American" are factors that unite, rather than divide. I think newness exists, becuase I think I made friends tonight.


Wednesday The French children delight me to no end. One thousand of them arrived this morning, with backpacks and little French words, tennis shoes and big, bright eyes. They stared at us and we stared back. They were shy to smile back at my smiling invitations, but I loved them anyway. In prayer service they surrounded me, watching me try to sing in their language, as if an American girl quitely chanting French prayers in a Southern "yall" accent is some sort of sight to see. I guess I can't blame them. And they did help serve lunch, scooping me a big helping of rice and beans. I looked in her eyes and said "merci" the best I could. Her response, with a quick smile and a squeak, was the best thing I heard all day- "Bon apetite!".


Thursday To be the guest. To be the minority, the burden. To sit to the side and listen through a translator. For it to be right. Americans are always first. We never have to learn another language and everyone knows they can shut us up with hamburgers, coca cola, and Hollywood. So often much of what is American becomes the greatest common factor between cultures- our language, our clothes, our music. And we end up just feeling catered to. But not today. Fot the first time in my life I sat in a crowd addressed in another language while a translator quietly kept me caught up. To be welcomed. To be helped. To be an American sitting in the corner was good. I hope it happens again, because it was good for me, and it was good for them.


Friday Light a candle. Sometimes simplicity is the most profound of all. Sometimes one candle lights another and pretty soon the room is glowing. Glowing. And my eyes are shining with tears that beg to fall yet can't. Sometimes every little girl I see breaks me. Sometimes a glimpse is all it takes for me to remember their hands and freezing feet. And how it smelled and they way that they smiled. And how they watched me and how I kissed them. And how some of the most profound human connections of my existence have happened with little orphan girls that I couldn't speak a word to. But allI have is a candle, and the glow that permeates the room. Fire is like love. It's beautiful, mysterious, warm, and bright. I want to love until we glow. And I want to love orphans. I want to light another candle.


Saturday "In the Lord I'll be ever thankful, in the Lord I will rejoice. Look to God, do not be afraid. Lift up your voices, the Lord is near. Lift up your voices the Lord is near. In the Lord I'll be ever thankful, in the Lord I will rejoice. Look to God, do not be afraid...." And we sing in Latin, German, French, Spanish, and more languages too. The German woman behind me sings the German songs with an impecable pronunciation and sound. I do not, but I sing anyway. I cannot tell you the words to the Latin songs, but I can hum their tune and join in with the others. With one voice we lift out prayers, chanting over and again. We are no longer Methodist or Episcopal, Eastern Orthydox or Presbyterian, Catholic or Quaker. We are just there, in the moment, in prayer. Whether sitting in silence or singing through communion, we are one voice.


Sunday There's something really beautiful about the simplicity of saying goodbye. Not "see you later." Not "stay in touch." Nothing but goodbye. There's something really beautiful about the people who come into your life, share a moment of a season, and then just go, like the wind. Like the scent of summer rain. Like a dandelion's branches. And all I have left is the way I struggled to say their names and the echoes of music that played in my heart. And "maybe it's sad that these are now memories. And maybe it's not sad. And maybe it's just the fact that we loved, and this was the time we could spend" (The Perks of Being a Wallflower).




au revoir, yall ♥

Sunday, May 3

plaid flannel shirts

So...I wrote this poem. And I know it's kind of silly. And I know that if you go to Hendrix it's cliche because all the slam poets have poems that sound like this, but I'm okay with that. I know it kind of sounds like a lame attempt at a personals ad, but it definitely is not. My friends have been pointing out every boy in plaid flannel for weeks now, and I knew I had to finish this and post it before they did it themselves. So here you go....

I want a boy that wears plaid flannel shirts
Wears top buttons unbuttoned
Wears sleeves pushed up

Rides bicycles barefoot
Feet rustling the grass
The way he rustles my hair

And a million blades of grass on his rough skin
Speed by only a little bit slower than the goose bumps on my arms
When he smiles

I want a boy who eats the earth
Drinks the sun
and prays

I want a boy that drives over the speed limit
Hand outstretched, embracing rushing air
Just to feel alive

Tells me he wants to live in a van,
Race me to the door, and go on dates
to watch Razorback fans in the Walmart parking lot

I want a boy that makes me want to sing Taylor Swift
Dance in the shower
And forget to go to sleep

I want Holden Caulfield,
Levis jeans,
and an offensive collection of bumper stickers

I want a boy who’d rather chase his dreams
And never get there
Than stop chasing for a single moment

Sings because he’s bad
Laughs because I deserve it
And usually burns the toast

I want a boy who gets dirty
Reads books
and, most importantly, thinks

Believes more in God than religion
More in hope than what he feels
More in beauty than what he sees
More in truth than what he knows
And more in love than me

I want a boy who’s a man
Or at least getting there
And always will be

With a smile like he means it
A pair of jeans you’d swear he never took off
The occasional cup of coffee
The always five o’clock shadow
And a plaid flannel shirt

Sunday, March 1

don't close your eyes

The first time I saw Switchfoot I was thirteen. My family used to go to this music festival in Atlanta, Georgia in the summertime. For four days bands would play one after the other from about three in the afternoon ‘til midnight or so. It was always rediculously really hot, but I remember having a great time. Naturally, a lot of artists, big and small, had the opportunity to play. Each day started with random bands that no one had ever heard of and then ended with huge names…names that made people come out for the festival in the first place.

Switchfoot played at 3:00 in the afternoon…on the first day.

It was epic.There were, oh I don’t know…fifty…people sitting out in their lawn chairs out on this big grassy field that was the theater. They knew what was up, though. Before the first song was even over, people were going crazy. Everyone, even I, knew these guys were the real deal.

I love Switchfoot for a lot of reasons, and one of the biggest reasons is that their lyrics are absolute poetry. I have so many memories of riding around in one of my dad’s little wannabe sports cars with him belting out Switchfoot lyrics. Pumping the breaks at stoplights to the beat, bobbing his head back and forth, taking the corners sharp in hopes of making me scream. It always worked. Actually, it always works. Some things never change. My love for Switchfoot is one of the many, many things I get from Daddy.

You remember when, we were way back then. You held the world inside your hand. When you told me love was the strongest stuff, your strength was innocence… You’ve been given innocence again.

Switchfoot’s songs remind me how beautiful life is. How I don’t want to miss a moment. How every little ounce of life counts, and how you have to be awake to actually be living it.

This weekend’s been a little like that.

Friday night our social committee brought in Natalie Stovall to do a concert. She’s an up and coming country artist from Nashville. Now, I have to be honest. I had never heard of her before, but I did hear from my roommate that she was good, so my friends and I went. Unfortunately, Natalie came on a night when way too many things were going on at Hendrix for a campus of 1,300. There were, I don't know...maybe 30...people in the audience. In a pretty big auditorium, too. And this was a legit concert, too--band, amps, lighting, everything. It was horrible.

but

The thirty of us decided that we better be the thirty biggest fans ever no matter how few of us actually were going to know a single song. Natalie sang. The girl is amazing. We screamed. We jumped. We waved our hands in the air. I pulled out the skills I learned back in Atlanta at thirteen. A couple of my friends and I took it upon ourselves to spend the entire concert standing at the front of the stage dancing and singing along as much as we possibly could. (It helped that she did some other popular, well-known songs.) We realized how insane it was that no one showed up to hear her play, but we still wanted her to feel welcomed and enjoyed. And we had an amazing time doing it.

She rocked it. As if she had a crowd of a thousand, she played her fiddle, belted her country lyrics, and absolutely earned the ecstatic praises of our tiny, little audience. It was like we wanted to give our best for her, and she wanted to give her best for us. After the concert my friends and I went and took our picture with Natalie and we thanked each other for the fantastic evening. It was beautiful.

Only the losers win. They've got nothing to prove. They'll leave the world with nothing to lose.

This morning (Saturday, mind you) the Office of Admissions was holding a visitation day for prospective students. As a part of my fellowship working with the Murphy Program on campus, I had to be at their programs fair at 8:00 in the morning to talk to prospective students (and their sometimes very intense parents...) about the Murphy Program. So, I woke up early, put on my favorite sophisticated-looking outfit, and walked over to meet my boss where we would be talking to folks. Pretty soon after putting on the fancy "Student Intern" name tag that she handed me, parents and high schoolers started walking by the little table we had set up to talk and try to feel things out for themselves.

Now, I know that it's kind of lame that this is a big deal for me, but I don't care. It was. Two years ago, when I was the one going to college fairs and the such, I was the girl that wanted to just dodge through, grabbing fliers and avoiding talking to any actual people at all costs. Daddy had to go with me and literally force me to talk to people. I remember being so mad when the Hendrix lady talked to us for, like, fifteen whole minutes. (The nerve.) We walked away and I told him not to go to more tables that said ARKANSAS.

Welcome to the fall-out. The tension is here. The tension is here between who you are and who you could be... Between how it is and how is should be. I dare you to move.

But today I talked to people. A lot of people, actually. I introduced myself to people that looked intested in our table and talked about whatever seemed to flow. And I wasn't even nervous. I actually had fun. Some crazy father literally interrogated me in front of my boss about the value of a liberal arts education. I think I actually gave him a pretty good answer, though. Nell (my boss) seemed to think I did, which was encouraging. And I was able to do it for the very reason that I was giving him. Because the liberal arts education is valuable. Because it is changing my life.

Shine on me. The shadow proves the sunshine. The shadow proves the sunshine.

Later in the morning, my friends Heather and Nathan and I traveled to Little Rock with a group of elementary and middle school students from a neighboring town that we have a weekly tutoring session with. We go on these field trips every once in a while as a reward to them for participating in the tutoring program. The town of Menifee, AR has a population of only about 300, but back in the day it was a major gathering place for many Arkansan African-Americans. Dr. Hines, a Hendrix professor who lives in Menifee and started the tutoring project, has proudly told me on multiple occasions about the gatherings and concerts that used to go on there. Unfortunately, a toronado came through Menifee that destroyed much of the town's ability to function the way it used to. And due to the Menifee schools being shut down, the kids now have to go to another school where they don't feel as at home.

And all I see, it could never make me happy And all my sandcastles spend their time collapsing. Let me know that you hear me Let me know your touch Let me know that you love me Let that be enough.

We went to Little Rock in celebration of the culmination of Black History Month. We visited the Mosaic Templars of America Museum in the district of the state's capitol that, during segregation, was owned an operated by African Americans. It was wonderful. And walking through with Dr. Hines was extraordinary. The woman knew the people that the museum displays talked about. She had seen the things in the pictures and been the places that were depicted. She could tell you just as much, and more, as the entire collection of displays.

And of course, being with the kids was so much fun. They are some crazy little people. These kids are more outgoing and bold that I have ever been, and I love them for it. Being mainly elementary-aged boys, they didn't exactly fully appreciate the museum, but there were definitely moments when I would catch them really taking a display in. It was good. I love those kids.


Love is the movement.


Love is a revolution.


This is redemption.


We don't have to slow back down.

The one thing about the museum exibit itself that really stands out is that they had two pieces of wall, broken apart, that had "white" and "colored" painted on them. Those signs are something that has become almost a symbol of the time in our country prior to the Civil Rights Movement. Everyone knows they were there, but to see it in real life...to see the actual pieces of wall right there...

I had to take a deep breath and collect myself.

It's unbelievable. It is so disturbing. And at the same time, look how far we've come.

I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to know that my heart's still beating. It's beating, I'm bleeding... We're awakening.

It's getting late. Obviously, it's been a long and glorious day. Tomorrow morning I will go to church. Greenbrier First United Methodist. My church. And I will go to Sunday School with Ms. Donna, and then in the service Dr. Farthing will sing with a booming voice and talk about our first Sunday of lent. He will serve communion and give his weekly speech about his passionate love for doing so. The three little old ladies that drive little red Volvo will park next to us. The children in the pew behind me will rustle their papers and be shushed by their mother. It will all be so normal, and yet, so beautiful.

Erosion. Oh, Spirit, fall like rain on my thirsty soul.

I love my life. I love the fact that I can go to a concert with thirty people at it on a Friday night and have the time of my life. I love waking up early on Saturday mornings and finding it to be more worthwhile than I could have ever imagined. I love chasing rambunctious kids around museums. I love going to church. I love eating cereal for dinner on Saturday nights because the cafeteria is closed and I want to save my money for my student loans. I love having to borrow my roommate's clothes because all my clothes are dirty and the laundry machine in my dorm is broken again. I love that I've been listening to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" (not even Switchfoot...) on repeat for three hours now. I love the fact that it's 2:30 in the morning and I should really go to bed, but I'm having way too much fun writing this.

I love that when I wake up tomorrow morning after getting not enough sleep, I get to open a brand-new bag of coffee. The first pot is always the best.

Don't close your eyes
Don't close your eyes.
This is your life,
Are you who you want to be?

Friday, February 20

leaf kisses

Our campus is small and beautiful. With an arboretum of trees both handsome and delicate around me (literally, Hendrix’s campus contains every species of tree native to Arkansas) I can walk anywhere in only five minutes, and I love that. When it’s dark, the walkways are lit by softy shining lampposts that guide my footsteps. With everything touched in an aura of gentle glow to guide my way, it eases my mind and soul to take a nighttime walk.


The sky is usually clear, painted with deep strokes of midnight, a sparse sprinkle of stars, and loose trails of humble clouds. The nighttime never fails to possess an ineffable distinctness. It is beauty. It is freshness. It is reality. Usually, though, I take my nighttime walks when my heart is heavy—when my world is caving in, when the last thing I have time for is a walk, but I take it anyways because it might just be the only thing that gets me through ‘til morning.


I didn’t take enough walks last semester.


One night, though, when the leaves where falling fast and my previously soaring heart was falling faster, I pulled on my boots and coat and trudged out. I can’t remember exactly what was burdening me on the occasion. My worries last semester stemmed almost exclusively from academic distress, but seemed to extend into many more realms of life than my course schedule contained. I guess that’s the way it is when an education becomes an interconnected web of all the parts of a person that were once separate and finite. Everything I do, every class I take, and every conversation I have…they all seem to come together.


The air was rather cool that night. It was the peak of fall and the leaves were swirling around me, falling from all those big trees in every direction I looked. I love trees. By the glow of the lamps, their trunks were visible, but their outstretched branches were only partially apparent, melting into the darkness of sky. I couldn’t tell where the tree ended and the sky began. I couldn’t tell where sky faded and tree began.


I felt like those trees. Growing up, reaching out, and expanding in every way, but at the moment blinded — unable to see where I was going, or where I ended, or where the world began. I was confused about the interconnectedness of everything. I, too, was melting into the vast, beautiful, wondrous, and dark sky. It was poetry, but my eyes saw nothing but darkness.


In retrospect, I look at the heartaches of last semester and I realize that I was being humbled. In everything I did, everyone else seemed better than me. And they were. From school to relationships to appearances to spirituality to everything else in my life, I realized how small I really was. It was heartbreaking. It was frustrating. But it was greatly humbling, and I needed it.


I was angry too, though. I’ve never been angry before, not about anything important. I was mad about school, and frustrated about a lot of other things. Those were difficult parts of learning humility, but I was downright angry about religion. For a very long time now, religion has been the place where I have found the core of my identity—through being a Christian and having a relationship with God. But last semester I was exposed to a side of what some people call Christianity that was repulsive and deeply hurtful. It tore me up so bad that I couldn’t do much more than just literally talk about it for a couple weeks. Christianity was my place, but I seemed to have lost it through this exposure. I was so angry that I couldn’t even cry.


Last semester I felt humility and anger. Over and over again, and it wore me down.


But it was nighttime. And it was beauty, and it was freshness, and it was reality. It was quiet, so I trailed off the lamp-lit path of my walk and lay down on my back on a bench and stared up at that deep darkness through the filter of the braches of an oak tree. The leaves flittered and fluttered, and then a gust of wind came.


Amber kissed my face. Crimson, copper, and gold, too.


And as the leaves fell from the trees whose branches had seemed to melt into sky minutes before, I didn’t shake them off my cheeks or lips. I let them fall. And it’s not that I figured things out, because sometimes things aren’t meant to be figured out. But it made a little more sense that everything was a part of everything else. The sky and the trees, their falling leaves and my softening eyes. School and spirituality, religion and relationships. The fact that I was angry and the fact that I was being humbled. The part where being humbled made me angry and where being angry eventually made me humble.


And I don’t claim to be humble now, nor will I tell you that my anger has subsided. In ways, that would be true. But in other ways, it wouldn’t. I do know, though, that when crunchy flakes of sky and tree caressed my tired eyes and swollen heart, I believed.


I believed that that God was bigger than religion. And I believed that being angry was okay. I believed that autumn was meant for nighttime walks and that college was meant for failing a couple times. I believed that the sky was big, and that I was really small, but that it was good that way. I believed in crisp air and messy laying-on-a-bench hair. I believed that the lampposts were glowing for a reason. I believed that it was dark, but that morning would come. I believed in life, and that it was supposed to be this way. I believed that the leaves really were kisses, and that they were from God, and that things were going to be okay.


Saturday, February 7

36 hours in D.C.

The craziest thing happened to me this week. Seriously. On Wednesday morning I got up really early, grabbed a suitcase and filled up my pink coffee mug, and hopped on a plane to Washington, D.C. A couple weeks prior, I got a call from a friend of mine inviting me to come up and speak at a workshop and a dinner he was organizing in conjunction with the National Prayer Breakfast there. I think my initial response was pure shock. Me? D.C.? Public Speaking? About...my ideas about Jesus? Honestly, I wasn't really quite sure if the whole thing was legit or not, but after talking it over with my friends and family, I agreed to go. So I wrote my little talk in my journal on the plane ride up there, hoping to be genuine, real, and, well...coherent.

I arrived and made my best attempt at figuring out public transportation to the hotel where I would meet my dad, have a room reserved, and where all the Prayer Breakfast events would take place. After almost getting on the wrong bus, then getting off at the wrong stop, walking about thirty blocks, and asking about ten or so people for directions, I found it. It was actually really exciting, being on my own, knowing I had to figure it out, walking through an exciting town I'd never seen before. Seeing my dad when I walked in the hotel lobby, though, was just as awesome. And more.

After walking to a little sandwich shop with my dad and catching up while we watched D.C. snowflakes fall from the sky outside the frosty windows, I put on my most business-like skirt (purchased at the thrift store for $5, if that tells you anything...) and began attending seminars, workshops, and meals that went along with the Prayer Breakfast the next morning. I was pretty suspicious of the whole thing, to tell you the truth. I mean, what better place to run into some crazies than a "Christian" event? I was pleasantly surprised, though, at the ecumenicism that I found. Of course, there were the crazies. But I also met some really amazing people. I got to have conversations with Parliament members from both Haiti and Uganda. It was such an honor.

The first time I was to speak was at dinner that night. I was really, really, really nervous. I mean, the last time I did public speaking was in an Arkansas classroom with only thirteen people in the room, and I knew them all. In short, it wasn't actually public speaking. I arrived early and sat down at a table close to the podium in the front and only moments later Olga sat down. I had never met Olga before, but immediately I knew we were going to be friends. She was maybe about fifty five, African American, claimed Texas as her homeland, and exuded one of the most warm, encouraging, motherly spirits I have ever encountered. Just having her sit by my side, between my dad and I, made me feel a little more at ease.

When I got up to speak, the whole thing became a blur. For just a few minutes, I talked about how big and amazingly complex God is to me. I talked about becoming weary, disillusioned with, and angry about being taught (and for a long time believing) that God was a calculated, definite, and concrete being. I talked about the process of rejecting that paradigm and trying to live in a posture where I am open to whatever God reveals himself to be. I talked about my church, little Greenbrier First United Methodist, and how I love it not because of the doctrine or theology that they teach, but because I see the extravagance of God, wonder of Jesus, and mystery of the Holy Spirit everywhere there. On the faces of the kids when the run to the front of the sanctuary for the children's sermon, in the chords of the doxology that our voices sing in unison, in the taste of the bread and wine as we take communion, in the warmth I feel when Dr. Farthing, or Ms. Norma, or the couple that just celebrated their 69th wedding anniversary smiles at me. I talked about how when you know such community, you know beauty. When you know beauty, you know grace. When you know grace, you know hope. When you know hope, you know love. When you know love, you know peace. I think that when you know any of those things, Jesus is revealing himself and you are knowing God.

Honestly, I think it went pretty well for as nervous as I was. Quite a few people told me they vibed well with what I said, and it was encouraging to know that maybe I'm not alone in conceiving of God in not-so-typical terms. Thursday morning, I woke up and went to the National Prayer Breakfast. Despite finding out that I would be sitting in the "Overflow Ballroom" and not actually getting to see President Obama, it was pretty cool. Afterward, there was a workshop where I did my little talk again. I said the same things, and I'm glad to know that I'm capable of public speaking without, you know, fainting or throwing up or anything.

It meant so much for my dad to be there with me. I think my parents were a little unsure of their twenty year old daughter flying to D.C. by herself invited by some man they didn't know. To say the least, it was understandable. He got a pretty cheap flight to come up and meet me, and I am so glad. I think he liked getting to hear my talk and I loved getting to hang out with him, even if it was only for a few hours. He also got to check out the Smithsonian and meet one of our favorite authors, Brain McLaren, on an elevator. I wish it could have lasted longer, just so I could have been with him.

On Thursday, I was done with all of my obligations at the Prayer Breakfast around 2:00, and my flight didn't leave until 7:00 that night. It was perfect, because there was no possible way I was going back to Arkansas without seeing at least the White House! It was the coldest day of the year, and I hadn't exactly packed accordingly, but I put on a few layers of the clothes that I had with me, and headed out into the city again to explore. I'm sure I looked like the essential tourist: layers of unmatched clothes, big camera, backpack, and pulling a suitcase behind me. Really, though, I could have cared less. I was out on my own in the Capitol, and it was exhilarating.

I rode the Metro up and down, walked blocks and blocks, and was lucky enough to see the White House, the Washington Monument, the Library of Congress, and the Capitol Building. I probably saw a bunch of other important buildings also, but I was going off a free map that I picked up at the hotel and didn't know the names of everything. I took a few pictures, and even lamely looked like a complete dork attempting a couple of self portraits to prove I was really there. It was so cool. I mean, really.

I made it to the airport just in time to grab a cup of coffee and wind down by listening to a couple songs on my ipod before boarding my plane. I changed planes in Atlanta, changed terminals three times in forty minutes, and landed back in Arkansas late Thursday night. It was a whirlwind couple of days. It was an amazing opportunity that I probably didn't at all deserve. I feel so thankful to have gone to D.C., and now, it feels so good to be back in the South, back home, back in Arkansas.

Saturday, January 24

This one's for Christy Faith



The first time I met Christy she was giving a voluntary book report on Lottie Moon in our weekly Sunday night GA’s class at Kingwood First Baptist Church. Soon after, she began inviting herself over to my house every week after Sunday school. Unable to resist her huge eyeglasses and beloved teddy bear t-shirts, I readily accepted. Maybe it was late spring afternoons spent blackberry picking on the greenbelt trails. Maybe it was long, sticky summer days traversing those trails on our bikes, hoping to get lost and have an excuse to return home much later. Maybe it was the way she woke up hours before me mornings after sleepovers and simply sat in my room silently, reading my books, not disturbing me one little bit. Or maybe it was the long nights of our sleepovers—we obediently jumped under the covers of my bed at ten o’clock, but stayed up talking about every entity of our eight-year-old lives for much longer than our mothers would have approved. Whatever it was, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


I’m not sure at what point we decided to be best friends. Maybe it just happened, but I do know for sure that there wasn’t a moment from that point on that Christy Faith O’Farrell was not my bff. And I was hers.


Throughout elementary, middle, and high school, Christy and I had more fun together than some people have in a lifetime. We organized our own summer jobs by creating a day camp for little girls in her backyard. For five summers, we somehow convinced the mothers of children from church and the neighborhood to drop their daughters off for “Princess Camp” where they would play games, do crafts, and sing songs. I think we might have made $40 each one of those summers, but it didn’t matter to us. We videotaped music videos of ourselves rocking out to Zoegirl and advertising fake commercials for weight loss. We made plans to start orphanages, write books, and befriend the homeless. We rebelled from the Homecoming dance one year and rebelliously went to a steakhouse to order virgin strawberry daiquiris at the bar. We made up original recipes using our mothers’ kitchen ingredients…at one point regrettably causing another little girl to throw up due to our lack of culinary skills. We shopped for prom dresses and won free tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. We donned every style conceivable for numerous self photo shoots, belted the lyrics to a million country songs, and explored the depths of life, love, and our God through conversations over countless cups of coffee.


It was in the midst of one of those conversations that we realized how special our friendship was, what a gift it was, how not everyone had a “Christy” or a “Michelle”. We decided that we were more than best friends—we were kindred spirits. We decided this because we knew that in spite of the insurmountable fun we had together, our connection as human beings was based on much more than good times. We decided that behind all of the laughter, smiles, notes, and heart-to-heart conversations, our hearts were attracted to one another because we shared a mutual relationship with God. We both saw our lives in light of the love of God, and because He was in both us, it was Him that drew us together.


It’s funny because if you ask the two us about our experiences in high school, we’ll give you two very different answers. I committed myself to honors classes and way too many extra-curricular activities. Christy never studied a day in her life and skipped so much school she almost didn’t graduate. We hung out with completely different groups of people, and our mutual friends were few and far between. Because of this, we didn’t always see each other on a regular basis. Our high school contained 4,000 students so it was easy to unintentionally avoid crossing paths for a week or so at a time. The summer after our senior year was the best of all, though, because we finally figured out how to spend every spare moment together. Outside of our jobs, families, and boyfriends, the two of us were together every other waking second. Our friendship grew immensely during those last few months before going off to college, and we came to know and understand one another on an unparalleled level.


A couple years prior, an older friend of mine went off to college and came home to tell me she didn’t really talk to her best friend from high school anymore. She and her “Christy” had grown apart, and I was shocked. I should have been scared, too, but I wasn’t. I somehow honestly, earnestly believed that Christy and I were immune to the ebbs and flows of life, immune to change, and immune to growing apart. I find myself feeling a little naïve for so adamantly feeling that way at the time, but it was only because I was naïve, and Christy really meant that much to me.


We went off to college still holding onto this confidence. Christy went to a state university relatively close to home and I headed to a small, private, liberal arts college hours away in the next state over. Immediately, our environments changed drastically, not only from those environments we had grown up with at home, but from each other’s. The first couple months, we ran up our phone bills talking for an hour or more every single night. Before the end of our first semesters, though, Christy and I began changing. We were both growing immensely, but in very different ways, and in ways that each of us had a terribly hard time understanding. I know there have been moments in the last eighteen months when both of us, individually and at different times, felt like our friendship was falling apart, when we were scared and cried alone, and when we wondered if we would ever understand each other again.


After eighteen months of incredibly concentrated change, exposure, and living of life a lot further than a bike ride away, Christy and I have hung onto that core thread of friendship that made us best friends, and kindred spirits, in the first place. God. Our lives are very different. We care about very different things. There are some matters that we have silently agreed not to discuss. We finally admitted to each other how scared we both were for a long time of growing apart, and how we’ve both accepted that our friendship of childhood is over. I think it’s a rare and beautiful thing, though, that our friendship itself is not going to end. Although in new and different ways, we both still see our lives in light of the immense and gracious love of our God. We’re going to fight to understand and love one another in spite of these changing times. Because we realize that a friendship like ours isn’t something to be taken lightly. It’s something worth fighting for, and we hope to God that it works.


Ever since we’ve been eight years old, Christy Faith and I have had a song that we felt puts a few words to our friendship:


Something brought you to my mind today
I thought about the funny ways you make me laugh
And yet I feel like it's okay to cry with you
Something about just being with you
When I leave I feel like I've been near God
And that's the way it ought to be...

You had faith, when I had none
You prayed God would bring me a brand new song
When I didn't think I could find the strength to sing
And all the while I'm hoping that I'll
Do the kind of praying for you that you've done for me
And that's the way it ought to be

'Cause you've been more than a friend to me
You fight off my enemies
'Cause you've spoken the Truth over my life
And you'll never know what it means to me
Just to know you've been on your knees for me
Oh, you have blessed my life
More than you'll ever know
-Watermark


If you hear us tell one another, “more than you’ll ever know” with a smile or a wink, that’s what we’re talking about ♥

Monday, October 27

hate

I don't feel like writing.
Writing makes me frustrated.
It makes me mad.
I sit down every time and stare at my computer screen for hours waiting for a moment of brilliant inspiration so that I can start typing away, pounding out some effortless, inspirational work of ingenious craftsmanship.
And I dream on.

I don't feel like writing.
Because it used to be fun.
Because things used to flow out of my mind and onto the page pretty smoothly.
Writing used to be a catharsis but now it is a frustration.
Why am I not better at this?
Why is Word underlining all of my sentences in little green, squiggly lines
as if it knows better than me what I want to say?
I hate this.

When I first started writing back in the day,
You know, like six months ago...
I just wrote.
A few hours later, I had a piece and felt pretty accomplished about it.
So my friends would read it and tell me how fantastic I am
and I would beam and start squandering up more fantastic things to write about.

Not anymore.
I just punch the keys like I'm punching one of those gigantic, bright red
punching bags hanging in a sweltering hot garage.
And the other people in the library calmly writing their perfect, little literary analysis papers glance my direction wondering what's my problem.
And I ignore their presence and jam my fingers harder into the keys.

I used to be good at writing until I discovered that other people are good at writing too.
Because they're better.
Because they write things that I would never even dream of, like amazing, stupid, fantastic poetry and other stuff like that that I love.
I mean hate.
And they read them with passion and fervor and conviction and I just sit there attentively in my hard, brown chair and
sink sink sink sink sink.

And then I turn in my own work to some million times published Ph.D. professor that I love and loathe all at the same time.
Because she should be inspirational but not at the time.
Not when she's marking up my heart and soul on paper with her dulling, yellow pencil.
Like it's politically correct or something not to use red ink.
Like all I hold inside my chest will be crushed slower or softer or something in erasable
gray.

So then I write junk like this.
And I abhor it.
What am I even doing?
When am I going to love this again?
Because with each hateful word that I type, It is wretched


to

detest


something


that I know






somewhere








in my heart,



I still
love.

Monday, September 15

a bible and a pair of boots

It was early December and I was eighteen. Bundled up from rosy face to four-layered sock toes, I entered the doors of the Falesti orphanage in the post-Soviet Republic of Moldova. This was not the first nor was it the last. Many orphanage doors had been opened to my team that week, two or three a day, as we came yielding a plethora of winter boots for feet that would otherwise be frostbitten. By the middle of the week we had our routine down—the children would file into a room and sit one at a time in front of a team member who would remove her soiled socks and ragged shoes to replace them with two fresh pair of socks and a newly fitted pair of boots. Even as I write this nearly two years later, the odor of those rooms persistently refuses to elude me or even grow faint.

Falesti is a rather large orphanage compared to the others I saw. There were organized classes of children sitting together, gaping at their strange visitors and whispering to one another in voices sweet yet indecipherable to my English-attuned ears. On this particular day, after every child had been served, a little girl of about seven or eight appeared in the doorway, lingering, looking like little girls do when they want to be beckoned to come closer. Her boots had been buckled by my hands, and she earnestly gazed at me again. I approached her, kneeling down. With her head hung low and her beautiful eyes sad, I tried to console the girl by gently caressing her hanging arms and brokenly speaking one of the only three phrases I knew in the Romanian tongue: What is your name?

“Me-chi-ella,” I heard so softly escape from her lips. Michelle. Although pronounced differently in Romanian, our names were one. I entreated a translator to enter the moment so that I might discover why Michelle had returned. Maia spoke ever so gently to the girl and then looked up at me.

“She wants one of the bibles, and she wants you.”

If a heart ever really did, as they say, melt, it was mine at that moment. What do you do when you find yourself willing to offer anything if only able? What do you do when aching with every fiber of the soul to draw nearer to someone but held back by every force upon the earth? If only our souls were water spouts and I could pour everything I had into her…I think I would have.

I brought Michelle a bible; I wrote her name—our name—in it and underlined one of my favorite verses. I wrapped her small frame in my arms for a moment. Although my words were in English I spoke them anyway, telling her how beautiful she was, how wonderful. Michelle’s face blossomed from shy and sad to a sincere smile in the light of my attention.

She left with hands full—that book. Yet my heart ached knowing how empty she remained. Mother, father, family, food and clothes, warmth, protection from trafficking, a hope and future—these I could not provide.

Days later I eventually had a breakdown. The world was becoming bigger and more broken than I had ever known before. I was becoming smaller and more obsolete than I had ever before possessed the humility to imagine. In those moments I lacked the ability to process too much. It was enough to be stunned and overwhelmed.

I am still yet to understand, but I am beginning to comprehend. Sometimes you fly halfway across the world and the best you can do is a Bible and a pair of boots. I mean, sometimes you reach out to serve and they need a lot more than there is to give. Michelle taught me that I do have something to offer, however small it might be. She taught me that her need did not equal my inadequacy because-

"I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me" (Galatians 2:20).

Though tears still escape from my eyes in reflection, she makes me feel inspired. There is work to be done—big work. I am small, but somewhere there is still a little girl with sad eyes standing in a doorway, lingering, looking like little girls do when they want to be beckoned to come closer. And I think that is something I can do.