Thankful

As I sit down to write this I am conflicted because in one breath I feel like I have no idea what to write, and in the next I am not sure that I will ever stop typing the words that are tumbling out of my brain. How can I find the words to express all that I have to be thankful for? How can I possibly help others understand my gratitude or perhaps even preserve this overwhelming feeling of gratitude that I have in this moment so that I can revisit it myself in the future? I'm not sure that there's an adequate answer to that question, so I'm just going to let these words fall out of my mind, through my fingers, onto this screen.

Thankful. Yes, it is Thanksgiving Day, but even when it isn't, I frequently find myself reveling in this life that is mine. It isn't without difficulty. It doesn't come without hard days, weeks, even years. This life isn't free of hardship or heartache. And yet, I often think to myself, there can't possibly be anyone on this earth that is as blessed as I am. This life is absolutely nothing of what I imagined it would be. I would never, ever, ever have told you that I would find my 27-year-old self living in an urban area a mere hour away from where I grew up. As a senior in high school, I would have predicted that 10 years later, I would be living in a third-world country helping to meet the physical (specifically medical) needs of people in the developing world. But I'm not. Instead I spend my days in a classroom despite the fact that I always said I would never be a teacher. Instead of Thailand, I call North Townsend Street my home. It is not everything I ever wanted life to be. I have found that it is truly so much more.

Thankful. For family, both near and far. Family like my husband who

loves me even in my most unlovable moments. Family that loves in the most incredible ways. Family that proves that distance doesn't matter. Family that makes me laugh and smile on the hardest days. Family that helps prepare Thanksgiving feasts. Family that texts recipes to help from afar. Family that gathers when loved ones are in town. Family that scrambles to make the mashed potatoes and carve the turkey when at the last minute other loved ones are called away to spend time by the bedside of a dying family member. For family that is celebrating in Texas and California. For family that loves, no matter what.

Thankful. For friends that I have known for a lifetime and those I have only met in recent years. Friends that I grew up with and friends who I've met in adulthood who have stretched me and caused me to grow in unbelievable ways. Friends who wake up at 4:30 in the morning to meet me at the gym. Friends who love "my kids" as much as I do and who totally get it when my heart hurts for one of these incredible young people. Friends who live across the street, around the corner, on the other side of the city, an hour down the Thruway, across the country, and around the world. Friends who I could not possibly love more if they were my own flesh and blood. Friends who feel like they are flesh and blood even when they speak a different first language, come from a different background, and look completely different from me. Friends who know exactly what I need and when I need it and they jump in and do whatever that is. Friends who clear my table, wash, dry, and put away my dishes after a Thanksgiving meal that they shared around our table in our home in this beautiful, wonderful neighborhood we call home. Friends who "get" me, who understand my heart, my calling, my passions. Friends who bless me in more ways than I could ever have hoped for.

Thankful. For home. For feeling more at home in this space than I probably ever have in my whole life. My heart is at home. This neighborhood is one of the absolute biggest blessings in my life. As I type this, I'm listening to three precious children giggling away as they work on homework in my dining room. They are writing thank you letters to policemen, reading books off my shelf, and practicing their alphabet. This neighborhood lets me walk for half a block and buy the best coconut milk, spices, and tropical fruit from the best little Vietnamese store. This neighborhood has me opening my door at 6:00 to two more neighbors, sharing apple crisp, and reveling in the beauty that comes in diversity. This neighborhood has given me neighbors that shower me in thanks in the form of eggs, chicken, and paper towels. Neighbors that shovel our driveway without being asked. Neighbors who allow me to share in their first-ever snowball fight. Neighbors that welcome us into their homes for afternoons, meals, or even for days, weeks, and months while we were between housing. Neighbors who make me laugh nearly every time I interact with them. Neighbors who call me in tears when they are at their lowest moments and are in need of a listening ear. Neighbors who ask to celebrate their birthdays in our home. This neighborhood is home in the best way imaginable.

Thankful. For a job that I love. For incredible co-workers. For the best students. For an administrator who is everything I could ask for me and more. Thankful. For a warm home. For delicious, healthy food in my refrigerator. For my health. For my upbringing. For financial stability. For a God that loves me. Who desires the best for me and those that I love. A God who inspires me to do what I do. A God whose love covers all. A God who is faithful even when I am not. A God who orchestrates things in such incredible ways that I will never fully understand. A God who knows me better than I know myself. A God who created this life for me and placed me exactly where He wants. A God who is bigger and greater and better than I could ever possibly imagine. A God who chooses to bless me in such absolutely incredible ways.

Thankful. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Always. For the things I listed. And SO much, much more.

I am more blessed than I could ever have imagined.

The Beginnings of a New Adventure

We are about to embark on a journey a bit unlike any other that we've experienced thus far. It's a journey that has probably been discouraged just as much as it's been encouraged. By well-intentioned friends and family members. People who love and care about us who wonder if we're making a wise decision. Will we be safe? Is this the area we want our future children to grow up in? What about the violence? And the schools? And the poverty? And the crime rate?

Yes, we are aware of all of these things and more. While I've never questioned my safety, it is simply undeniable that we'll be living in a neighborhood with a drastically higher crime rate than any we've lived in before. I'm well aware of the challenges in our school district. After all, I've spent the last 2.5 years doing everything I can to combat them. And I also see the bright spots of our schools. Every. Single. Day. And that part about future kids? It is absolutely a resounding yes - this neighborhood is exactly where I hope they'll spend their most formative years.

Will there be challenges? Without a doubt. Am I ready to face them? Honestly, probably not. But am I willing to dive in wholeheartedly, holding nothing back to make my home in this neighborhood? It's easy to say that there aren't many things in life I've ever felt more sure about.

I know that there will be challenges and struggles and experiences that will undoubtedly break my heart, my spirit, and my will. I know that there will be countless tears cried, innumerable times of asking, why God?, and almost assuredly sleepless nights. Sadly there may be broken relationships, difficult discussions, and uncomfortable moments. Am I scared? A little. Am I nervous? A bit. Am I ready? Not really, but absolutely.

I realize the fact that I'm white, that I have a master's degree and a good job that pays well should mean that I never have to live in a neighborhood like this one. I grew up with both a mother and a father whose love was never questioned. I attended private school. I participated in just about any and every extracurricular activity possible because we could afford to and we had transportation. We never thought of ourselves as rich, but in so m any ways we were - and I am. I'm privileged because of where I was born, because of the color of my skin, because of the opportunities afforded to me throughout my life.

I'm privileged to be sure. But I am not better than, more deserving than anyone else. Why is it okay for the children and young people I love to live in a neighborhood with a high crime rate, but that's beneath me? Oh but it's so wonderful that we let them come to America. This has to be better than the places they've come from. True - most times it is. But if it's great for them, but not good enough for me, what does that mean if not that my life has greater value? That is a like I simply refuse to accept.

As we move into the neighborhood, it's not to "save" anyone or anything. It's to become neighbors, share the love of Christ, welcome people into our home, and build community. It's to develop relationships which allow our friends and neighbors to realize their full potential, start to dream for their own futures, and become agents of change in their own community.

I hope our move builds bridges. Bridges that allow people who look like us, believe like us, and are in the same social circles as us to have their eyes open to a whole new world of beauty and diversity. Bridges that allow our refugee neighbors to know that we are more similar than we dare to imagine and that we are no better despite our privileged position in this society. Bridges that cause our children not to think of their Congolese, Nepali, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Iraqi, Somali, Sudanese, Ethiopian, Eritrean, Rwandan, Burundian, Yemeni, Vietnamese neighbors as different and other but as brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends.

Christ doesn't call us to the comfortable, the easy the safe. He calls us to a life of sacrifice, selflessness, and stretching. I'll be the first to admit that I frequently fall short. I accept the call when I want to, when it's convenient, when it's not too uncomfortable, and when my safety isn't in question. But when I'm tired or overwhelmed or just don't feel like it, I pretend I haven't heard the call or that it doesn't apply to me.

Jesus tells us to love our neighbors. And while I know that this goes beyond our definition of what a neighbor is, I'm beyond excited to literally love my neighbors - the ones I walk with on the streets, the ones who live next door, the ones I run into at the ethnic markets and the corner stores. The ones I'll have the opportunity to do life with simply by virtue of living nearby.

And this adventure? I'm so unprepared and yet so ready all at the same time. My prayer remains the same: God, break my heart for what breaks yours. Open up my eyes to the unseen by so many. Allow me to be your hands and feet. As we embark on this adventure, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will learn SO much. And I hope, just as I do everyday at school, that I might teach even half as much as I learn.

The Burden and The Blessing

I love my job. Simply put, there is absolutely no task that I can imagine doing that would bring more joy, more fulfillment, and more of everything wonderful in my life. Each and every morning when I get out of bed I know that I am going to have the opportunity to interact with, to teach, and to learn from some of the most remarkable young people on this planet.

This is my third year teaching ESL full-time in an urban school district and it is, by far, the best one yet. The past two years I have taught middle school. This year, I made the move to a school a few blocks from where I have spent the last two. I teach in a building that gets a really bad rap due to its location in the most impoverished area of our city, the lowest graduation rates in the area, and who knows what else. But, can I tell you something? This place is unbelievable. I am amazed each and every day. Overwhelmed too, but amazed. And there is no place else I would rather be. 

At the beginning of the current school year, I had 13 students...yep, only 13. They had been in Syracuse ranging from 2-8 years and had all tested in the lowest two levels of English proficiency. Over the last few months, that number has more than doubled...I think the last count had 27 on my roster. I've welcomed siblings from Somalia, Sudan, and Vietnam. I have received other new students from Nepal, the DRC, Iraq, and Burma. Refugees, mostly. A few immigrants...but mostly refugees. Some have come knowing a little English while others know none. Some are 14. Some are 18 (or so they say, but I'm really convinced that a few are pushing 22). Our classroom is a community that celebrates diversity in all of its beautiful, wonderful, various forms. And I love it.

Each of my students has a unique story. Some that I know well and could rehearse back to you. Some that I know brief snippets of. And some that I have not even begun to hear. But they all have a story. 

Sometimes when I hear their stories or see glimpses of them in the eyes of my students, it becomes a burden that seems far too heavy to carry. Sometimes when I realize that our broken system is expecting students who have never before had access to formal education to pass difficult state exams without first learning the basics, I become overwhelmed. Sometimes when I see the brokenness that continues to pervade their lives after they have come to a "better" place, my heart breaks and the burden seems unbearable. Sometimes when I realize that I am one of the first consistent people to welcome them and help them adapt to life in a new country, I begin to feel inadequate and burdened once again. 

But then there are the other moment. The other days. The ones in which I am overwhelmed by the blessing that this work is. The moments in which students who have had everything stacked against them overcome the odds and experience incredible academic success. The days on which my students ask seemingly silly, yet indescribably meaningful questions like, "Can I be your sister?" The times when I realize that I have the undeniable, absolutely incredible privilege of walking through life day by day, side by side with some of the most resilient people on this planet. 

These "kids" are going places in life. They know where they have come from. They know what they have overcome already. And they know they aren't finished yet. They journey on day by day, one step at a time. And I'm the lucky one who gets to watch and learn and celebrate and sometimes even teach them a thing or two. 

I pray that even in the moments that I feel burdened and bogged down and inadequate that the reality of this blessing might shine through in an undeniable, unbelievable way. 

A Dangerous Prayer

Have you ever prayed a prayer without fully realizing the gravity of what you're asking? Have you ever begged God for something without thinking of the implications that it might have on your day to day life? Have you ever hoped and prayed for something that you would never truly understand until it came to pass? I have. A while ago (and probably several times over the course of my life) I have prayed a prayer that has totally rocked my world and changed my life. That prayer was this:

And goodness has it ever been answered. In the hardest of ways. I'm not sure what ever possessed me to pray this in the first place. I mean, seriously, how crazy do you have to be to pray for someone to break your heart?? I'm not entirely sure, but apparently I am that crazy. And I guess I'm also crazy enough to be glad that I prayed that prayer. Is it easy? Ha. Not even close. Is it fun? Maybe as fun as a root canal (though I've never had one myself, so I'm not certain). Is it a prayer I'm thankful I prayed? Honestly, somedays yes. Somedays no. Is it life changing? Without a doubt.

I've learned a lot since I prayed that prayer. I think I've come to realize more and more what things truly break the heart of God, because I know for sure that more and more things have broken mine. Seeing families broken apart by war and alcoholism and mental illness breaks my heart. Watching shame, pain, and anger take over the hearts and minds and mouths of the teenagers that I love with all that I am breaks my heart. Listening to friends (and walking alongside of them) as they share stories of a past spent in refugee camps, adjusting to a "better" life here in America, and navigating through all of the new difficulties breaks my heart. Observing as young men and women continually feel like failures as they seek to survive and thrive in a school system not designed for them breaks my heart. Reading and receiving messages begging me to come rescue "little sisters" from situations that are mentally, emotionally, and physically dangerous breaks my heart. These...and so many more...are true examples of events and experiences that have broken my heart in the last 2 months alone. 

It is painful. Oh so painful. But it's weird. I don't know that I have ever described pain as beautiful before, but I truly and wholeheartedly believe that this is a beautiful pain. The beauty comes in the way that I feel a camaraderie with these friends and "family members" that experience this pain. The beauty shines through in the way that I feel God has absolutely, without a doubt, given me His heart and His love and His passion for these people. On my own, I would never, ever be able to keep loving, keep giving, keep understanding, and even keep breathing somedays. 

Is this a dangerous prayer to pray? Absolutely. Is it worth it? I don't know that I've ever said or done or prayed anything more worthwhile. God is faithful. In the best of times. In the worst of times. And amazingly, His grace, love, compassion, and strength overwhelm me and flow through me even in the moments that I feel utterly broken, helpless, and hopeless. When I am weak, He is strong. 

So please, God, please continue to break my heart for what breaks Yours. And continue to be my strength when I am at my weakest.

He Heals the Broken-Hearted

Nearly 2.5 years later, here I am. I have visited this space a few times and have begun to spill my words onto the page. And yet, I've navigated away leaving my words unsaid and trapping my thoughts inside my head instead. But today I am determined not to do that. Today, I will allow the words inside my head to tumble out onto this blog, regardless of how clumsy and uncertain they may sound.

About a year and a half ago, Tim and I moved an hour and a half east of the small town where we'd both grown up. We settled in Syracuse where I began teaching middle school ESL in the Syracuse City School District. It was my dream job. I have had the opportunity to build relationships with some of the most incredible, resilient, overcoming young people I have ever met. I have been blessed to come to know their families and hear their awe-inspiring stories. I have shared delicious meals, stumbled in my not-so-strong Swahili, laughed at the silliness of children that knows no cultural bounds, and cried countless tears as I've learned of the pain that so many of these precious teenagers have endured. My first year came to a close last June and I felt blessed beyond belief. I felt as though I had been successful in helping my students acclimate to American culture, learn how to read, write, speak, and understand English, and simply feel loved all along the journey.

Six months ago, I began the adventure of a new school year. On that Tuesday morning, September 2, 2014, numerous new faces filled my classroom. Many were familiar, though few were well known. Over the last six months, this new batch has changed me. They have radically transformed my life. They have challenged me, and at times, they have made me feel like a complete failure. I have begun to hear and understand their stories and I have been wrecked. There are mornings and moments that I can think of nothing else but these unbelievable young people and the unimaginable pain that they have experienced in their short lives. This year though, there is one boy, one family that has pulled at my heart strings like none other.

He is thirteen years old. An eighth grader. His family comes from Burma, a land he himself has never seen or experienced. Born in a refugee camp in Thailand, he moved to America with his father, mother, and two siblings when he was about 5 years old. After a short time living in another state, he and his mother and siblings fled from an abusive situation. They found themselves in Syracuse where they have lived for the last several years. He is thirteen years old. An eighth grader. An eighth grader that can't read at a first grade level. A thirteen year old that does not know how to subtract. A precious, resilient young man who has essentially been abandoned by his father. A child who has been abused in numerous ways by numerous people. A boy who battles deep-seeded anger, depression, shame, and frustration. An incredible teenager that I love with everything that I am.

We have experienced the joy of connection. I have seen moments where his face lights up simply because he knows that someone cares. There have been mornings that he hasn't shown up for school that I have appeared at his house, dragged him out of bed, and brought him for the rest of the day. I have seen a kid who has consistently failed every class for the last several years finally pass every single class during the second quarter. I have seen determination and hard work and perseverance. I have experienced feelings of immense, immeasurable pride as I have watched this young man excel.

And then there are the other moments. The moments during which he seems to forget all of the positives. The moments in which he becomes buried beneath the weight of the pressure. The moments that my name becomes just another word mixed into a string of expletives or the very target of such expletives. The moments in which anger rises up and takes hold of his heart, his mind, and his mouth.

Oh how it stings. At first it stings for the pain and rejection I feel after giving so much, loving so deeply and being treated so poorly. And then the sting gets worse...not because of the pain that I am actually experiencing, but because of the pain I can only imagine he must feel. The pain that causes him to feel unworthy of love, of devoted care, of words of affirmation. The sting deepens as I realize that nothing I can say or do could ever free him from the weight of this burden. It intensifies as I understand that I cannot bear the load for him. It becomes unbearable as I continue to think of the pain, the sorrow, the sadness, the shame that he must live with on a daily basis. And my heart begins to break as I pray:

Dear Jesus,
Take this precious child of yours and wrap him in your arms. Overwhelm him with your love, your peace, your fullness, your joy. Remove the burden of sorrow, sadness, and shame from his shoulders. Cause him to see himself as you see him. As a beloved child of a Father who loves him without condition. Allow him to reach a point where he can truly accept love, care, and affirmation from those around him who love him deeply. Refresh his mind and renew his heart. May you draw him to yourself in a powerful way so that he never again doubts his purpose, his value, or his past. Use me to change his life for the better. And help me to remember that you love him far, far more than I ever could. Thank you for your faithfulness and your love for this incredible, resilient young man. I trust that you have unbelievable plans for his future and I look forward to seeing all of the incredible ways that you will use him. Be with him in this moment. Hold his heart. Wipe away his tears. Comfort his mind. Restore his soul. Overwhelm him with a sense of joy he has never known. Draw him close to you.

I rest only in the knowledge that my God loves this boy more than I ever could. That he is truly a father to the fatherless. That he heals the broken-hearted and comforts the abused. That he is a helper to the helpless and a fighter for the hopeless. Tonight, this song gives me rest.

World's Worst Blogger

That's me. And yet, it's something that I love, enjoy, and find therapeutic when I dedicate the time to do so. I am constantly encouraged as I read past posts that reveal the work of God in my life. I think my problem is that I often feel a blog post needs to be profound, life-changing, and extraordinary. But I'm realizing more and more that the blogs I enjoy reading are those of friends and real people who simply talk about their everyday life. I've also come to the realization that I don't really blog for anyone else...this is just a way for me to express my thoughts and a way that enables me to better see the path that I am journeying along. And a way to reflect on all that life has been up to this point.

This morning on my way to work, God brought to mind many friends and acquaintances that I had the opportunity to meet through missions trips that I took in high school. While I have not seen most of these people in 7+ years, there is something about spending a month with someone in the context of a missions trip that builds and solidifies relationship like nothing else. Perhaps it's the experience of adapting to culture shock together. Or the depth of the prayers prayed in unity. Maybe it's the crazy experiences that you share in common as a result of such trips. Things like smelling absolutely terrible after not being able to shower for days at a time. Like cramming 18+ people in the bed of a pick-up truck climbing a mountain on a wet, mucky red clay road. And getting stuck. And walking the rest of the way barefoot.  There's just something about seeking God together and endeavoring to serve His people that brings unity. And I love it.

There's one friend in particular that I was thinking of this morning. It's been 7+ years since we went to Thailand together. We're Facebook friends and she's one of the two followers on this mostly-dormant blog. We occasionally talk via text or Facebook chat. And yet after all these years of not seeing each other and not even really communicating that often, I still consider her a friend.

I would absolutely, without a doubt get together with her for bi-weekly weekly  breakfast or coffee dates if we were ever even close to being in the same geographic region. And I often wish we were. 

She's passionate about life. Her passion is infectious. I like to think that we have quite a bit in common, but maybe that's just wishful thinking because she's one of the best people I know. 

Stephanie is an encourager. She's a world-changer. An adventurer. A Christ-follower. A soon-to-be nutritionist. An inspiration. A blessing. She is all about using her gifts, talents, and passions to bring the love of God to those around her. Sensitive to His calling on her life, she's not content to simply live an "ordinary" life. This post shows exactly what I mean. And it's posts like this that make me think that we might, in fact, be what Anne Shirley would call "kindred spirits."

Today I am thankful for this wonderful friend who I don't get to see nearly often enough. We've got some wonderful memories of our trip to Thailand but it's about time that we make some that are a bit more recent. Good luck with the rest of your finals, Steph. I am praying for strength and endurance over the next few week. Know that you are a blessing even now, 7+ years since the last time we've seen each other. How thankful I am for you!

Lent Fail...

So...I had high expectations as Lent began that I would write a letter of encouragement each and every day of this season. Unfortunately as school, work, and life got busier, I failed to make the time and effort to ensure that I completed the challenge that I set for myself. And while I'm disappointed, I am also encouraged. A few days after sending one letter, I received a text message that said, "Just got home from a very long day. GOT A WONDERFUL CARD. so wonderful, I cried. I love you. Thank you so much for thinking of me." The realization that it takes 10 simple minutes to write a letter that can have this impact is amazing. And I think I must be crazy to not write letters like this more often. While I failed in this endeavor, I'm not going to give up. While I may not have written the 40 letters that I intended to during this season, I did get a start. And I'm certainly not finished.

This post is inspired, in part, by a blog post of a friend of mine from today. In it, she mentioned a friend who made a list of 183 people that had played an important role in her life in the past year. She wrote each of the 183 names down and put them into a bowl. Every other morning she pulls out a name, spends two days praying for that individual, and writes a letter of encouragement. If that's not inspiring, I'm not sure what is. I want to be a person like that. So here goes...I'm going to try this again. But this time, I'm hoping to make it a lifestyle change. How cool would it be to write a letter of encouragement every other day to someone who has been influential in my life. It's simple, really. Take 10 of the 4 million minutes I spend wasting my life away on my computer and spend them writing an inspirational note of encouragement. I know for certain that I can't do this on my own strength, but I'm praying that God might enable me.

I'm going to get started on my list...check back in the future for more updates (if anyone is actually interested). I didn't read that blog post today on accident...and I'm sure that God has great plans to use the words that He gives me to be an inspiration and encouragement to the people that have been a blessing in my life.